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S.  H.  W.  SMITH. 


POPULAR  BOOKS. 

By  "Brick  Pomeroy." 


I. — SENSE. 
IL — NONSENSE. 
m. — SATURDAY  NIGHTS. 

rv.— LIFE  OF  POMEROY.     ( TO/*  Portrait. ) 


'The  versatility  of  genius  exhibited  by  this  author  has  won  foi 

him  a  world-wide  reputation  as  a  facetious  and  a  strong 

writer.      One  moment  replete  with  the  most 

touching  pathos,  and  the  next  full  of 

of  fun,  frolic,  and  sarcasm.'' 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume,  at  $1.50,  and  sent 
by  mail,  fiee  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

CARLETON,    Publisher, 
New  York. 


OUR 


SATURDAY 


BY 

J 


MARK    Mi    POMEROY, 

AUTHOR    OF    "SENSE,"    AND    "NONSENSE." 


NEW    YORK: 

Carleton,  Publisher,  Madison  Square, 

LONDON  I    S.  LOW,  SON,  &   CO. 
MDCCCLXX. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1370,  by 

GEORGE  W.   CARLETON, 

In  the  C'.crU's  Office  of  &•  Dh'ttjct  cVurt.'oJ  tte  <tai«cd  States  for  the  Southern 
•  * 


Stereotyped  at 
THE   WOMEN'S   PRINTING  HOUSE, 

Kighth  Street  and  A\Luue  A, 
New  York. 


TO     THE 

WIVES    AND    THE    WORKING-MEN 

OF  THE  WORLD, 

jls  anprttcntong    bolum*  of    fmi-foriiien 

IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED, 

WITH  THE  EARNEST  PRAYER  THAT  IT  MAY  ADD  TO 
THE  HAPPINESS  OF 


M.    M.    POMEROY. 

NEW  YORK,  1870. 


tvi?89.38 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I. SITTING  SIDE  BY  SIDE 17 

II.  — LITTLE  TIN  PAILS 25 

HI.— LITTLE  HOMES  AND  LOVED  ONES  ...  32 

IV.— AN  EMPTY  HEARSE 40 

V.— HOME  ON  A  SHUTTER 50 

VI.  — OUR  TREASURES 58 

VII.— A  LITTLE  GIRL  WHOSE  NAME  is  LULU,  G6 

VIII.  —  SUCH  A  LITTLE  COFFIN  ! 70 

IX.  — KIND  WORDS  FROM  WOMAN'S  LIPS.    .    .  88 

X.  —  STAGGERING  HOME 96 

XL— WORTH  OF  WOMAN'S  LOVE 105 

XII.  —  FUNERAL  NEXT  DOOR 113 

XIII.  — "ONLY  Two  LABORERS  KILLED!"      .    .  120 

XIV.  — SINKING  TO  REST 128 

XV.  —  STANDING  BEFORE  THE  MINISTER  .    .    .  136 

XVI.— BURDENS,  AND  THOSE  WHO  BEAR  THEM,  144 

XVII.— REST  FOR  THE  WEARY 155 

XVIII.  —  ONLY  A  POOR  OLD  WOOD-SAWYER!    .    .  163 

XIX. — HOME  TO  THE  LOVED  ONES 172 

XX.— ABOUT  THAT  LITTLE  "YES" 180 

XXL  — SHE  BROUGHT  A  SKELETON 187 

XXII.  — GOING  HOME 106 

XXIII.  —  SOLILOQUY  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN    ....  203 

XXIV.—  VERY  LONELY  ..." 211 

XXV. — ABOUT  OUR  NEIGHBOR 219 

XXVI. — PLAIN  WORDS  TO  THOSE  WE  LOVE     .    .  226 

XXVII.  — THE  OLD  WOMAN 237 

XXVIII.  —  THE  FAMILY  RECORD 245 

XXIX.  — THE  POOR  OLD  MAN 255 

XXX.  —  THE  OLD  BUREAU  DRAWERS      ....  264 
(vi) 


PROLOGUE. 


'O-DAY  an  old  friend  came  to   our  private 
room  and  asked : 

"  Did  you  know ,  of  Milwaukee,  when 

you  lived  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  know  his  daughter,  who   attended  the 

Ward  school?" 

"Not  the  very  pretty  girl,  who  was  so  quick, 
attractive,  and  so  full  of  promise  ?  " 

"The  same." 

"What  of  her?  It  is  years  since  then  —  since 
we  saw  her  in  school  one  day,  a  little  innocent  girl, 
the  pride  of  her  parents,  and  the  loved  of  all. 
What  of  her?" 

"She  is  dead!" 

"Well?" 

"She  died  in  this  city  this  morning  early. 
Poisoned  herself  last  night.  And  the  keeper  of 
the  house  where  she  is  says  she  must  be  taken  away 
this  afternoon,  for  a  dead  person  in  the  house  kills 
luck." 

"Tell  us  more." 


viii  Prologue. 

And  he  told  us  a  heart-rending  history.  Years 
ago,  nine  as  the  calendar  counts,  the  one  who  had 
tired  of  life,  was  a  child  in  Milwaukee,  a  distant  city 
of  the  West.  She  was  quick,  bright,  attractive,  and 
over-petted  to  her  injury.  Her  temper  was  hot  — 
her  charms  many.  She  lived  for  excitement.  She 
went  aside  from  the  path  her  loved  parents  had  so 
well  walked,  and  loitered  in  the  bowers  of  that  in 
cipient  sporting  life,  where  those  enticed  slyly  taste 
the  fruit,  and  inhale  the  perfume  of  attractive  flowers 
growing  so  beautifully  on  deadly  vines.  The  poison 
went  to  her  brain ;  the  early  life  became  warped 
as  present  pleasures  were  planted  for  future  pains. 

She  came  and  went ;  she  roamed  and  romped  like 
the  butterfly  that  cares  not  for  the  winter;  she  sat, 
and  rode,  and  walked,  and  talked,  and  rested  with 
those  who  were  feasting  on  her  young  loveliness, 
till  home  became  irksome ;  and,  when  those  who 
loved  her  best  did  kindly  ask  her  of  the  present, 
she  rebelled,  and  inhaled  more  of  the  poison, 
which  drove  the  good  from  the  heart. 

She  thought  bowers  were  houses — rambles  here 
and  there  amid  vines  and  flowers  were  walks  on 
the  road  to  life. 

And  when  the  flower  fell  and  the  thorn  pricked 
her  soul,  instead  of  returning  to  the  true  path  and 
seeking  only  the  love  of  one,  she  tried  other  laby 
rinths,  and  yet  others.  But,  alas  !  the  flowers  fell 
everywhere,  and  everywhere  the  ugly  thorns  followed 


Prologue.  ix 

Then  she  left  her  home.  Under  a  veil,  and  an 
assumed  name  she  went  to  other  cities :  she  came 
to  this  and  drank  deep  of  the  poison  which  gave 
fewer  and  yet  fewer  hours  of  pleasure  and  more 
and  more  days  of  grief. 

She  was  sought  by  this  one  —  by  that  one.  She 
gave  to  this  one  and  to  that  one.  Keeping  nothing 
for  herself,  living  only  on  the  froth,  and  never 
drinking  deeply  of  the  pure  water  beneath.  With 
her  back  upon  hearts,  home,  happiness,  and  true 
manly  friendship,  she  sought  her  home  in  the  whirl, 
and  lived  to  float,  and  drift,  and  be  tossed  from  arm 
to  arm,  as  whim,  fancy,  or  devil-leading  passion  drew 
the  ribbon,  or  shot  glances  from  watching  eyes  that 
were  but  detectives  for  baser  souls  within. 

With  our  friend  we  went  to  her  room.  Up 
Broadway,  and  then  into  a  side  street.  The  ring 
of  a  door-bell  brought  a  negro  woman  to  open  the 
walnut  door  of  a  palace,  so-called.  Up  stairs  to  a 
beautifully  furnished  bedroom  —  three  of  us,  besides 
the  undertaker  and  his  assistant,  with  a  plain  coffin. 

Softly — in  here.  Ah!  She  will  not  waken.  We 
looked,  and  the  tears  came  into  our  eyes,  for  all 
she  was  but  a  dead  unfortunate.  She  was  once  a 
girl  —  once  a  woman  —  once  a  loved  child,  beside 
whose  little  bed  fond  parents  have  stood  and  gazed 
on  her  sleeping  beauty,  and  thanked  God  for  her 
coming. 


x  Prologue. 

Finery  everywhere.  Silks,  jewelry,  articles  of  the 
toilet  —  pictures  on  the  walls,  dresses  spotted  by 
wine,  books  of  prose  and  poetry. 

A  slipper  on  the  right  foot  —  silk  stockings  fitting 
her  beautiful  ankle  —  a  little  plain  gold  and  three 
diamond  rings  on  the  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  with 
a  single-stone  diamond-ring  on  the  fore-finger  of 
the  right.  A  watch  and  chain  lay  noiseless  on  the 
bureau,  stopped  at  fifteen  minutes  past  four.  Won 
der  if  her  life  ran  down  then  ?  God  only  knows  ! 
A  little  white  kitten,  with  ribbon  of  blue  about  its 
neck,  was  sleeping  on  the  pillow.  Beside  her  was 
an  empty  ounce  vial,  which  had  contained  laudanum. 

She  lay  partly  across  the  bed,  one  hand  under 
her  head,  as  if  sleeping;  her  beautiful  hair  dis 
hevelled,  but  such  a  sad,  sick,  desolate  look  on  her 
face,  the  tears  would  not  keep  back. 

She  had  died  as  she  lived,  in  her  finery.  In  her 
hand  was  a  letter,  —  a  good,  kind,  heart-written  let 
ter  from  one  who  had  known  her — who  for  years 
had  tried  to  save  her,  for  he  loved  her  dearly. 
And  the  letter,  with  this  chapter,  we  send  to  the 
writer,  miles  away,  that  he  may  know  that  the  way 
ward,  giddy,  whirling,  careless,  beautiful,  thoughtless 
girl  he  loved,  for  all  she  was  not  true  to  herself, 
was  taken  to  a  quiet  grave  by  ones  who  have  kind 
hearts,  and  who  will  never  reveal  his  secret,  for 
thus  do  those  fraternally  bound  by  each  other. 

She    has    gone,     poor,     heart-wrecked,     desolate- 


Prologue.  xi 

souled,  beautiful  one.  Let  us  hope  to  the  care 
of  those  who  will  not  pluck  to  destroy  —  who  will 
fold  her  in  loving  embrace,  and  keep  her  with 
renewed  purity  for  the  one  who  so  loved  her,  so 
kindly  wrote  to  her,  so  well  wished  her,  yet  whose 
honest  love  and  kind  interest  had  so  little  weight 
with  her  here. 

Her  trunk  was  full  of  finery,  and  cards  and  pic 
tures,  and  letters  from  the  gay  and  thoughtless  — 
full  of  odds  and  ends  of  a  poisonous  festival  !  And 
in  a  little  box,  as  if  sacred,  the  picture  of  father, 
mother,  a  sister,  and  two  brothers.  What  shall 
we  do  with  them  ?  Send  them  home  ?  They  know 
not  where  she  was,  or  is  !  They  only  know  she  is 
away,  but  under  what  name,  what  doing,  alive  or 
dead,  they  know  not,  for  all  they  have  often  sought, 
as  we  know.  Shall  we  tell  them,  or  carry  the  secret 
with  others  and  others  we  hold  to  the  grave  ?  What 
would  our  readers  do?  What  would  b 


A  hearse  and  a  carriage.  At  dusk,  or  nearly. 
Steadily  we  moved  on  down  the  street,  meeting 
thousands.  We  put  her  in  a  plain  coffin,  for  her 
life  had  been  too  plain  of  joy  to  mock  her  corpse 
and  her  great  agony  with  a  gilded  casket.  The 
beautiful  one  she  had  she  despised  —  would  not 
preserve  —  would  not  confide  to  the  keeping  of  the 
one  she  loved  and  who  loved  her,  so  infatuated  was 
she  with  the  life  she  wanted  to  lead,  so  we  would 


xii  Prologue. 

not  insult  her  corpse  with  the  hate  of  her  life ! 
She  rested — but  oh!  that  sad,  heart-wrecked,  pity- 
pleading  face  seeming  to  cry  out  from  its  perishing 
stillness : 

"O  God!  O  man!  Give  —  give— give  !  Oh! 
give  me  back  to  that  life,  that  love,  that  truth,  that 
purity,  that  heart,  —  that  all  that  would  have  been 
my  salvation  !  O  God  !  pity  me,  for  the  world  does 
not !  And  give  me  rest,  if  I  cannot  have  that  hope, 
that  faith,  that  bliss,  that  happy  future  I  might  have 
had  but  for  careless  wanderings." 

Over  the  river  we  bore  her  away.  We  met  others 
like  her  on  the  streets,  little  caring  or  dreaming 
who  was  in  the  hearse  ahead,  or  the  carriage  fol 
lowing.  We  took  her  away,  as  they  will  be  taken. 

If  the  graves  of  the  lost  ones  could  cry  out, 
who  could  listen  to  the  terrible  wail?  The  love 
and  passion-songs  of  earth  —  the  discordant  uni 
sons  of  perdition,  sufficient  of  themselves  to  curse 
millions  and  hold  their  souls  down  to  agony.  Oh! 
the  present  —  the  future  !  The  minute —  the  Eter 
nity  !  O  Father  in  Heaven !  give  us  all  will  and 
power  to  save,  but  no  heart  to  wreck,  to  destroy ! 

We  buried  her  as  the  sun  went  down  on  this 
beautiful  Saturday  Night.  And  we  rode  slowly  home 
as  the  hearse  went  its  way  for  another,  or  to  wait 
an  order ! 

And  we  looked  out  of  the  carriage  window  as 
the  dead  one  can  look  out  of  the  window  of  the 


Prologue.  xiii 

past  to  see  where  she  mistook  the  road !  And  we 
saw  people  hastening  to  and  fro  —  this  way  and 
that,  eager  to  reach  home.  Poor  girl  —  she  was 
eager  to  reach  home !  So  she  went  uninvited  — 
glad  to  rest  in  the  grave,  anywhere,  rather  than  ir 
her  wild,  heart-rending,  soul-harrowing  thoughts. 

Well  —  she  is  gone.  God  be  kinder  to  her  there, 
than  she  was  to  herself  here  !  Fearful  was  the  load 
she  took  with  her!  Every  flower  a  thorn  —  every 
ramble  a  walk  with  fiends  —  every  reckless  dalliance 
a  garment  of  torture  woven  on  earth  with  the  bright 
side  out,  to  be  worn  there,  with  the  stings  piercing 
the  soul. 

And  God  pity  her  parents  —  and  him  who  loved 
her.  She  is  at  rest :  the  waters  of  the  river,  and 
the  rack  of  the  torture  that  drove  her  to  death  may 
purify  her  —  we  hope  they  will. 

To-night  we  are  going  on  a  visit.  To  the  bedside 
of  our  friends.  We  will  kiss  them  while  they  sleep, 
and  they  will  not  know  we  were  there.  We  will 
straighten  the  coverlets  over  the  hearts  and  to  the 
throats  of  those  we  love  —  will  kiss  them  again  and 
pray  God  to  keep  them  all  in  the  right  path.  And 
we  will  go  for  hours  before  we  sleep^  to  the  bed 
sides  of  those  miles  and  miles  away,  and  see  which 
are  to  be  lost  or  to  be  saved  —  to  the  bedsides  of 
those  who  sleep  in  sin  and  reckless,  imloving  pas 
sion,  and  kiss  them  once  never  so  softly  for  the 
mothers  and  fathers  who  have  lost  them  forever. 


xiv  Prologue. 

Then  to  the  sleeping  forms  of  those  who  have  lost 
loved  ones  in  the  terrible  whirl,  and  whisper  of  the 
meeting  Over  There,  where  the  truants  will  return, 
and  then  in  the  cribs,  cradles,  and  beds  of  those 
who  have  good  fathers  and  mothers  to  watch  over 
them,  and  will  with  the  loving  and  the  living  look 
with  joy  and  pride  on  the  sleeping  ones,  who  little 
know  in  their  childish  dreams  that  while  they  sleep, 
while  all  is  still,  warm  hearts  are  beating  and  tear- 
glistening  eyes  are  looking  and  praying  that  they 
may  live  for  those  who  most  truly  love  them  — 
from  God  to  man,  and  not  be  taken  to  the  grave 
as  was  the  poor,  storm-tossed,  heart- wrecked,  beau 
tiful  child  of  misfortune  we  in  sadness  helped  burv 
this  Saturday  Night. 


INTRODUCTION. 


HIS  is  Saturday  Night. 

With  others,  in  general,  the  labor  of  the  week  is 
ended.     All  over  the  land  are  weary  men,  and  weary 
women  and  dear  children  who  have  homes,  and  dear 
ones  who  have  none. 

"Well,  what  of  them?" 

Only  this :  they  need  more  true,  earnest  friends  than  they 
have ;  they  are  the  toiling  ones,  who  deserve  kind  words,  and 
who  should,  who  will,  be  kinder  to  each  other. 

Long  years  have  we  suffered  and  battled  for  ideas,  principles, 
and  rights.  By  this  ordeal  we  have  learned  to'think.  And  to 
think  of  others.  Of  working-men,  all  over  the  land.  Of  weary, 
worthy,  patient  wives.  Of  children;  of  the  good  and  the  bad, 
everywhere.  Now,  as  GOD  is  our  judge,  we  do  feel  kindly  to 
all  men;  we  feel  more  than  a  deep,  truthful,  earnest,  enduring 
interest  in  those  who  would  be  happy;  who  would  live  to  a 
purpose,  who  would  have  homes  here  on  earth,  and  glorious 
happiness  in  the  beautiful  Land  of  the  Leal  where  we  hope  to 
rest  some  day  forever. 

Saturday  Night  !  and  others  are  at  rest.  Perhaps  in  the  hours 
this  night  before  the  old  week  dies,  we  can  write  something 
which  will  make  men  and  women  happier,  and  homes  happier, 
and  loves  stronger,  and  children  stronger  to  live  for  a  great  and 
good  purpose.  Would  to  that  GREAT  FATHER  we  are  not  one 
bit  afraid  to  meet,  and  who  has  given  us  such  a  full  faith  for  a 
happy  and  useful  future,  we  could  talk  as  one  would  sit  of  an 

(xv) 


xvi  Introduction. 

evening  and  converse  by  his  fireside  with  friends  dearly  loved,  and 
in  whom  real  interest  is  felt,  —  to  all  the  wives,  the  children,  the 
working-men  of  the  land. 

But  this  we  cannot  do. 

And  so,  faithful  pen,  with  which  we  have  written  more  than  a 
thousand  of  columns,  and  millions  of  words,  will  you  aid  us  in  a 
little  work  each  Saturday  Night  ?  They  tell  us  you  are  mightier 
than  the  sword  ;  and  we  believe  it.  Therefore  we  choose  you  as 
our  friend,  and  enlist  you  in  the  work  of  labor  while  others  rest. 
And  so  sit  we  down  to  our  labor.  With  a  heart  warm  and 
full  of  love  to  those  who  really  wish  to  be  good,  and  true,  and 
loving,  and  happy,  we  hold  thee  Heavenward,  that  the  sunbeams 
of  earnest  interest  from  the  beautiful  spirit  Home  may  rest  on 
thy  diamond  point,  and  that  good  influences  may  be  in  our  heart 
direct  from  those  with  whom  we  hold  such  sweet  communion, 
that  the  words  we  write  on  the  coffin-lid  of  the  dying  week 
may  make  better  those  to  whom  this  heart-written  volume  is 
dedicated. 

And  do  not,  good  home  ones  who  sit  by  hearth  and  fender ; 
who  know  the  depth  and  purity  of  earnest  love  ;  who  with  us  are 
often  weary,  think  ill  of  us  for  this  plain,  homely  writing.  We 
would  not  dictate,  nor  compel  you  to  think  with  us.  Cut  we 
would  see  you  all  happier,  and  deem  it  no  wrong  nor  cause  for 
shame  to  sit  down  while  others  rest,  to  write  from  the  heart  of 
an  earnest  man,  who  has  known  grief,  sorrow,  labor,  struggle, 
privations,  and  success,  kind  words  to  all,  and  especially  to  the 
ones  to  whom  this  volume  is  dedicated  for  reading  on  all  the 
morrows,  as  we  begin  this  our  earnest  home-work  Saturday 
Night. 

Thine  for  the  Right, 

M.  M.  POMEROY. 


SITTING  SIDE  BY  SIDE. 

'HE  Rain!  the  Rain! 

How  it  patters  on  the  panes,  runs  down 
in  rivulets,  as  if  the  windows  were  sorry 
and  in  tears !  Our  work  for  the  week  is  well- 
nigh  finished — perhaps  the  work  of  our  life 
will  be  finished  this  Saturday  Night. 

It  will  be  for  many ;   and  the  tears  of  sorrow 
2  (17) 


18  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

for  the  loved  ones  will  patter  like  rain-drops  on 
strained  and  grief-crimsoned  hearts. 

How  the  old  memories  are  recalled  by  inci 
dents  !  Near  a  score  of  years  ago !  How  time 
comes  and  is  lost  in  the  mist  of  the  past !  In  a 
room  not  so  large  nor  so  nicely  furnished  as  this. 
No  gas-burners  holding  back  the  .curtains  of 
darkness,  but  a  simple  lamp. 

It  was  Saturday  Night. 

She  sat  right  there -^ou  a" little  ottoman.  We 
sat  right  here,  as  it  beenis.  Never  a  picture  so 
distinct.  Ittftd£e£f  and  'iho'  ('Irons', danced  and 
spattered  as  they  were  storm-whirled  against 
the  panes  in  that  blessed  country  home.  She  sat 
there,  we  here.  It  was  not  far  from  here  to 
there,  nor  does  it  seem  an  hour  since  thus  we 
sat.  And  yet  it  must  be.  Men  cannot  suffer  so 
much  in  an  hour ! 

She  was  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  unlike  any 
others  we  ever  saw.  She  talked  with  them,  and 
every  word  was  in  spirit-melody,  "/  love  you, 
darling"  Do  you  wonder  memory  is  faithful ? 


Sitting  Side  by  Side.  19 

Her  hands  were  in  ours.  They  were  such  soft, 
white  little  hands,  who  could  help  kissing  them? 
We  thought  them  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
world.  And  her  eyes — they  talked  to  us  so 
eloquently!  And  her  lips — ^none  like  them  in 
all  God's  creation.  Purity,  fervor,  love,  sweet 
ness,  devotion,  confidence.  Earnest  trusting  and 
quiet  heart-rest — these  were  the  unwritten 
volumes  her  lips  told  as  we  read,  from  their  red 
readiness,  while  the  rain  pattered  much  as  now. 
Years,  years,  years;  but  still  that  night! 

We  sat  and  talked  as  others  have  and  as  others 
will.  The  sky  was  cloud-covered,  but  not  our 
hearts.  It  was  very,  very  dark  without,  and  the 
storm  howled  as  if  in  envious  anger  at  the  picture 
within,  and  spent  its  spattering  venom  on  rill- 
coursed  panes  in  vain.  What  we  talked  of,  or 
how  long,  we  cannot  tell — yet  we  can.  It  was 
of  the  past  which  seemed  so  short — the  present 
which  was  so  bright  for  all  the  darkness  outside 
— the  long-coming  future  across  the  broad  waves 
of  which  we  launched  many  little  boats,  and  were 


20  OUT  Saturday  NigKts. 

very  happy  to  see  them  sailing  away  to  distant 
isles  we  had  been  told  were  'way  out  in  the  ocean 
of  the  future,  and  to  be  found  by  somebody! 
The  isles  existed  only  in  that  direction,  yet  some 
folks  send  their  ships  in  all  directions !  And  the 
farther  they  sail  the  further  therefrom.  Alas! 
there  are  many  ships  idly  cruising,  wrongly 
mated,  never  nearing  the  beautiful  groves  of  the 
sea,  but  at  last  sinking  from  sight  while  the 
waves  roll  on,  and  other  boats  or  ships  sail  over 
that  spot  perhaps  to  sink  just  beyond! 

But  we  thought  of  these  things  while  the  rain 
pattered  and  the  wind  in  gustful  fever  raged 
without.  So  close  she  was  to  us.  Yes — hand 
and  heart — lip  and  life. 

"How  the  wind  blows  and  the  trees  wail!  Is 
it  not  a  fearful  night  ? " 

"  Yes  :  are  you  not  afraid  ? " 

"Afraid?    ISTo,  darling;  for  you  are  here." 

She  wore  no  diamonds,  nor  was  her  garb  of 
silk.  "We  had  no  houses,  lands,  or  wealth,  but 


Sitting  Side  ly  Side.  21 

never  was  boy  or  man  so  rich.  Her  eyes  seemed 
like  portals  of  Heaven,  from  which  came  most 
wondrous  light  of  love,  and  not  gentler  ever  was 
nod  of  beautiful  flower  than  the  silent,  soul- 
sealing  kiss  on  forehead  then  so  gently  given. 

"No  matter  how  wild  the  storm,  how  dark  the 
night.  Hearts  that  are  truly  heart-warmed 
never  feel  the  outside  cold  or  pang  of  poverty. 

.  .  It  is  late.  The  storm  is  over.  My 
darling  must  rest.  As  the  storm  has  gone,  and 
the  stars  are  coming,  so  will  troubles  go  and  joys 
come  if  w^e  but  live  for  the  within,  but  not  in 
selfishness. 

Closer  and  still  closer.  Yes,  very  soon  will 
we  come.  And,  now,  darling,  this  kiss, — 

"  Good-night,  loved  one,  good-nigJit! 

But  ere  from  thee  we  part, 
Take  this  one  kiss  of  love  —  good-night ! 
It  tells  how  dear  thou  art." 

The  morrow  came.  .  .  .  They  found  her 
asleep !  The  little  hand  was  on  the  pillow ;  the 


22  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

once  red,  now  pale  cheek  rested  on  her  hand; 
the  lips  parted  as  if  to  smile.  So  they  found 
her  when  came  the  morrow;  so  they  told  us.  But 
she  slept  in  a  little  narrow  coffin.  The  physi 
cian  said  she  passed  away  instantly,  from  over 
excitement  of  the  heart. 

"  Good-night,  loved  one,  good-nigJit! 

But  ere  from  thee  we  part, 
Take  this  last  kiss  on  earth  —  good-nig7itl 
It  tells  how  dear  thou  art." 


Many  the  Saturday  Night  have  we  sat  by 
a  little  grave  looking  into  the  eyes  which  live 
forever.  And  she  ever  seems  to  us  as  then, 
and  we  even  say, — 

"  Y"es,  very  soon  we  will  come !  " 

And  when  the  wild  wind  roars  and  the 
storm-fiends  hold  revels  in  air;  when  the 
great  drops  patter  on  leaf  and  rock;  when 
the  trees  in  the  forest  near  by  bend  in  terror, 
toss  their*  limbs,  and  seek  to  prostrate  them- 


Sitting  Side  ~by  Side.  23 

selves  before  the  Power  of  the  elements; 
when  others  sit  by  little  fires  or  side  by  side, 
we  love  to  sit  there  by  that  hallowed  spot, 
and  talk  with  her  as  of  yore.  She  is  not 
dead.  Ah,  no!  She  was  too  young — she  is 
at  school  with  God,  waiting  our  coming.  And 
for  years  we  have  been  ready,  and  mayhap 
we  can  go  home  some  Saturday  Night  like  this. 
We  know  she  is  waiting  and  wondering  why 
we. do  not  come;  and  that  she  wi-11  wait  till  we 
come,  and  then  will  have  been  found  that 
beautiful  isle  we  missed  on  the  ocean,  or  rather 
which  we  did  not  start  from  shore  in  search 
of,  for  our  pilot  was  taken. 

Sometimes  the  clouds  gather  very,  very  dark 
over  our  life,  and  we  go  away — no  one  knows 
where.  And  we  sit  beside  that  little  grave, 
hold  her  hand  in  ours,  look  into  her  eyes,  and 
launch  our  little  ships  as  we  did  years  ago. 
And  the  memory  of  then — the  hope  of  then 


24  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

makes  us  brave  and  stout  of  heart.  And  we 
try  to  be  good,  for  she  was  good,  and  to  live 
so  that  when  we  cross  the  ocean  of  sleep  between 
us,  and  step  to  meet  her  coming,  she  may  not 
be  ashamed  of  us. 

When  the  work  comes  for  us  to  do,  we  do  it, 
just  as  we  told  her  we  would.  That  Saturday 
Night  we  were  .very  poor  in  all  save  hope  and 
pluck,  and  it  is  hard  to  lift  sympathy  away  from 
such  as  the  good,  the  loved,  and  the  trusting 
as  that  night  sat  with  us  while  the  rain  beat 
as  when  we  began  this  chapter.  These  rain 
storms  are  stepping-stones  to  the  hallowed 
past,  and  they  are  laden  with  the  resolves  and 
promises  made  that  night  before  the  Great 
Eternal.  And  but  for  others  we  would  wish 
that  there  would  come  a  beating  rain  and 
a  storm  on  whose  wings  we  could  ride  to 
meet  her,  and  in  honor  of  whose  memory 
we  write  a  little  chapter  under  her  angel  influ 
ence  each  Saturday  Night. 


n. 

LITTLE  TIN  PAILS. 

rOD  bless  the  little  tin  pails ! 

To-niglit  we  saw  them  going  home,  — r 
a  thousand  and  more  of  them.  They 
were  carried  by  men  who  toil — by  the  working- 
men,  who  are  sneered  at,  and  snubbed,  and 
jostled  against,  and  pushed  aside  by  the  gilt- 
edge  fashionables  whose  hands  are  soft  and 

(25) 


26  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

whose  hearts  are  hard.  The  little  tin  pails  went 
out  this  morning,  and  they  went  in  to-night. 
The  man  who  had  one  in  his  hand  swinging  by 
his  side,  was  weary  and  foot-sore,  just  as  w^e 
have  been  a  thousand  times,  and  no  one  to  pity 
us,  save  the  one  who  waited  our  coming,  and 
the  God  who  has  pity  for  all  who  need. 

"We  saw  the  laborers  go  by  this  morning, 
their  little  pails  full,  their  step  quick  and 
elastic;  for  it  will  not  do  for  laboring  men  to 
be  late !  The  rich,  who  carry  furs  and  gold- 
clasp  purses,  and  who  pet  their  poodles,  may 
be  late  or  not  go  at  all;  but  the  honest  man, 
with  hard  palms  and  an  uncertain  future — he 
must  be  on  time.  'Way  up  stairs,  down  cel 
lar;  in  the  close,  sticky,  ropy,  thickened  air  of 
the  tenement  house,  where  humanity  is  huddled 
like  sheep,  their  little  pails  were  filled.  A  wife 
arose  while  her  tired  husband  was  sleeping  "just 
a  moment  more,"  and  with  silent  step  walked 
the  floor  till  the  scanty  meal  of  the  morning 


Little  Tin  Pails.  27 

was  ready.  Then  she  called  him,  and  the  tired 
man  arose,  wishing  he  did  not  have  to  go  forth 
thus  early.  And  while  he  ate  hurriedly,  the 
hand  he  once  so  loved  to  kiss  filled  that  little 
pail.  A  slice  or  two  of  bread,  a  little  cold  meat, 
some  salt  and  mustard,  and  perhaps  a  piece  of 
pie  or  cake ;  mayhap  an  egg,  or  cold  potatoe ; 
and  perchance,  in  a  little  cup  on  top  the  pail,  a 
pint  of  coffee.  Then  the  knife  and  the  spoon 
were  slipped  in,  and  he  hurried  away. 

Work,  work,  work!  hour  after  hour.  Think 
ing  of  this  and  that;  of  the  past,  of  to-day,  of 
to-morrow.  Hammer,  saw,  pound,  brush,  stitch, 
file,  drill,  shovel,  lift,  watch,  strain  muscle  and 
strain  mind.  Hours  go  by — noon  conies.  The 
little  pail  is  welcome  treasure.  It  comes  at  hour 
of  rest,  with  its  fill  of  food.  The  tired  man  eats, 
and  he  thinks  of  home  and  the  loving  hands  that 
filled  his  little  pail,  and  his  heart  grows  strong ; 
and  when  the  noon  hour  is  over,  he  works  and 
works,  and  he  works  for  her  and  for  them,  and 


28  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

for  a  better  home,  and  a  time  when  to  rest  a 
day  is  not  to  rob  the  loved  ones. 

And  he  looks  back  over  the  years  to  the  time 
when  he  wondered  if  she  loved  him,  and  to  the 
Saturday  Nights  when  he  hurried  home,  and 
washed  his  face,  and  his  hands/ his  neck,  his 
body;  when  he  put  on  his  best,  and  no  matter 
how  tired,  hastened  to  meet  her,  to  see  her,  to 
put  his  hand  in  hers,  to  take  one,  two,  three,  — 
a  score  of  kisses  from  the  lips  so  loved,  and  to 
look,  oh !  so  far  down  into  the  depths  of  the  eyes 
which  were  his  choicest  mirrors.  She  was 
young  then.  Now  she  is  old  or  growing  old. 
He  works  in  the  shop.  She  toils  in  the  house, 
and,  perhaps,  goes  out  to  labor,  to  help  him 
earn  a  home. 

Monday  —  Tuesday  —  "Wednesday  —  Thursday 
—Friday — Saturday!  Six  days  of  toil,  of 
waiting,  of  working,  of  hoping,  of  doubting,  of 
hard  labor  for  the  loved  ones,  and  the  life  all 
prize.  The  little  pails  go  and  come,  day  after 


Little  Tin  Pails.  29 

day,  till  they  build  houses,  stores,  churches, 
towns,  cities,  countries  !  And  they  last  often 
after  those  who  carry  them  have  gone  home  to 
the  land  of  the  leal,  and  the  rest  that  knows  no 
more  disturbing.  Up  in  shops,  'way  up  stairs 
and  down  cellars,  on  the  streets,  along  the 
wharves,  here,  there,  everywhere,  they  go  and 
come,  till  they  have  worn  out  the  laborer  and 
enriched  the  employer. 

And  the  men  who  carry  them,  and  all  who 
toil,  are  the  ones  w^ho  build  the  country  and 
finish  the  town.  The  miser  looks  at  his  gold 
or  his  bonds;  the  bondholder  rides  in  his  carriage, 
quaffs  his  wine,  lolls  back  on  his  sofa,  sports 
his  jewelry,  counts  his  bonds,  figures  on  his 
income,  pays  no  taxes,  and  lives  like  a  lord. 
He  builds  no  houses.  He  erects  no  stores. 
He  piles  not  one  brick  above  another  till  a 
beautiful  improvement  be  made ;  but  he  robs 
the  little  tin  pail  of  all  it  earns,  and  empties 
the  sweat  it  holds  Saturday  Night  into  the 


30  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

crucible  of  Congressional  protection,  then  pours 
out  perfumery  for  himself  and  his  loved  ones, 
who  are  mincy,  and  nobby,  and  stylish,  and  soft 
of  palm;  who  wear  silks,  and  catch  their  skirts 
in  hand  as  they  pass  the  little  tin  pail  lest  the 
robe  of  aristocracy  be  touched  with  honest  spots. 
We  do  not  like  the  mincing  worshippers  of 
poodles,  and  the  ones  who  sneer  at  the  laborer 
and  rob  him  of  his  earnings. 

For  an  hour  we  have  seen  them  go  by.  Little 
tin  pails,  more  precious  and  worthy  than  dia 
mond  necklaces.  The  ones  who  carry  them  seem 
tired,  as  we  are  tired  from  over-writing.  God 
guide  those  who  carry  them  to  happy  homes, 
and  give  the  weary  man  a  night  of  rest.  And 
to  him  we  say,  God  knowing  we  mean  but 
good,— 

"  Go  home  and  rest.  Hang  the  pail  on  its  nail 
or  stand  it  upon  its  shelf.  Then  draw  off  your 
boots,  if  the  chores  be  done.  Kiss  your  wife 
as  you  did  years  ago,  when,  on  a  Saturday  Night, 


Little  Tin  Pails.  31 

you  told  her  you  loved  her  so  dearly.  Call  back 
the  love-light.  Be  good  and  kind  to  her.  Eest 
her  palm  in  yours.  Smooth  back  the  hair  from 
her  brow,  and  hold  her  cheek  to  your  neck  as 
in  days  of  the  past.  She  has  worked  all  the 
week,  in  her  room — busy,  busy,  ever  busy, 
for  woman's  work  is  never  done.  She  has  not 
had  the  company  you  have.  She  has  counted 
the  hours,  waiting  your  coming,  for  the  home 
of  the  poor  is  sometimes  lonely.  Be  kind  to 
her,  love  her,  talk  to*  her,  read  to  her. 
Eead  this  chapter  to  her,  and  tell  her  you  are 
trying  to  make  your  home  and  your  loved  ones 
happy.  Save  your  money.  Beautify  your  home, 
be  it  never  so  humble.  Do  not  squander  it  for 
rum  or  in  dissipation,  to  weaken  your  strength, 
shorten  your  days,  and  embitter  the  final  hour. 
And  try,  working-man  and  brother,  how  much 
you  can  do  to  make  home  happier,  and  our 
work  will  be  to  help  you." 


III. 

LITTLE  HOMES   AND  LOVED   ONES. 

& 

IKE  the  stars  of  God,  they  are  scat 
tered  all  over  the  land.  Little  homes 
and  loved  ones,  where  men  and  women 
and  children  are  far  happier  than  they  think 
for!  To-night  marks  another  Saturday  Kight 
fold  in  our  record  —  one  more  shortening  of 
the  programme  of  life.  All  the  week  we 
(32) 


Little  Homes  and  Loved  Ones.  33 

have  worked  till  both  brain  and  body  are 
tired,  weary,  and  rest-needing.  All  the  week 
in  the  great  city' — hard  walls,  with  their  glass 
eyes  on  either  side  of  us  —  hard  floors  to  the 
city  nnder  feet  —  hard  hearts  and  selfish  ones 
sifted  in  with  the  mellow  and  liberal  ones, 
till  never  was  there;  a  more  wronderfnl  kaleido 
scope  than  that  of  life  in  this  wrestling-ground 
for  those  who  struggle  to  please  the  beggar 
of  Mammon. 

Eich  and  poor  all  about  us.  And  which  are 
the  happier?  God  knows !  We  know  the  brown 
stone  fronts,  the  marble  fronts,  the  expensive 
palaces,  are  all  well  enough ;  but  they  are  filled 
with  more  furniture  than  happiness.  Dollars 
bring  care  and  old  age  to  the  heart.  They  lead 
into  dissipation,  into  recklessness,  into  living  for 
those  who  pass  by  to  envy  rather  than  for  those 
who  kiss  a  fond  good  night! 

Shoddy  and  aristocracy,  selfishness  and  snob 
bishness,  ignorance  and  duplicity,  extravagance 
(3) 


34  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

and  unhappiness,  make  the  set,  and  tiresome 
is  the  dancing  when  people  live  for  their 
eyes  and  the  eyes  of  others  rather  than  for 
their  own  hearts. 

The  happy  homes  and  the  humble  ones. 
The  little  homes  and  the  loved  ones.  Where 
labor  has  a  friend,  honesty  an  advocate,  love 
a  votary,  and  life  a  noble  purpose,  there  you 
will  find  happiness.  The  rich  yawn,  and  gape, 
and  drink  wine,  and  grow  weak,  thin  of  blood, 
and  lean  in  relish;  they  follow  fashion  to 
the  emasculation  of  vigor  and  zest  for  the 
enjoyable  that  springs  from  love;  they  sit  at 
the  card-table,  dress  for  the  opera,  dream  of 
stylish  sensations,  grow  life-languid,  pause  and 
sigh  for  the  lusty,  vigorous  manhood  and  hap 
piness  that  homes  with  the  laboring  and  the 
loving. 

The  poor  envy  the  rich  their  fine  clothes, 
fine  houses,  handsome  carriages,  wealth  of  jew 
elry,  and  life  of  ease.  But  the  rich  are  the 


Little  Homes  and  Loved  Ones.  35 

most  envious.  A  thousand  times  have  we 
heard  them  sigh  for  the  health  and  brain- 
rest  of  the  man  who  labors  to  support  his 
loved  ones.  The  contents  of  our  hearts,  not 
of  our  safes,  make  us  rich! 

"  How  much  did  he  leave  ? "  asked  a  man, 
when  the  millionaire  died.  "Half  a  million," 
said  one.  "  A  million,"  said  another.  "  Two 
million  in  bonds,"  said  the  third;  "  /  Jtnow  ! " 
spake  a  laboring  man,  as  he  sat  on  his  work 
bench,  eating  his  noon-time  lunch  from  a  lit 
tle  tin  pail.  "How  much?"  asked  they  all. 
"How  much  did  he  leave  when  he  died?  — 
all  he  had!" 

And  the  mourners  returned  from  the  tomb, 
drying  their  eyes  by  the  way.  And  they  went 
to  their  lawyers  for  consolation,  and  retorted 
tho  memory  of  the  dead  man  till  they  ex 
tracted  the  last  grain  of  gold,  hated  each 
other,  and  cursed  him  forever  that  he  left 
them  no  more ! 


36  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

That  was  his  wealth;  that  was  what  he 
worked  for  to  put  in  the  coffin  with  him. 
The  petted  calf  was  fatted  and  died  for  the 
benefit  of  the  f casters  —  the  worms! 

That  was  their  rich  man.  Ours  is  another 
man.  "Who?"  "\Ve  will  tell  you  before  the 
Saturday  Kight  be  gone.  He  is  a  working- 
man.  He  is  a  laborer,  with  look  of  health, 
hard  of  palm,  but  mellow  of  heart.  He  works 
in  a  shop  or  an  office.  He  lives  to  live  and 
make  others  happy.  He  goes  and  comes  at 
stated  hours.  lie  leaves  the  echo  of  a  hun 
dred  kindnesses  in  his  home  as  he  goes  forth 
to  his  labor.  lie  leaves  a  kiss  on  the  lips  of 
his  little  ones  to  keep  them  warm,  and  on 
the  lips  of  his  wife  to  make  her  heart  light 
and  keep  her  from  saying  cross  words;  he 
takes  a  kiss  as  he  goes,  and  all  the  hours  of 
toil  thinks  of  and  works  for  the  dear  ones 
of  the  little  home  and  the  loved  one. 

All  the    day  he    pounds,   or   files,   or  saws, 


Little  Homes  and  Loved  Ones.          37 

or  sets  type,  or  feeds  a  press,  or  strikes  in 
the  forest,  or  in  the  mines,  finding  gold  for 
the  bondholders;  or  labors,  as  others  labor, 
for  the  welfare  of  the  loved  ones  and  the 
making  of  their  homes  more  beautiful.  He  is 

O 

good,  and  true,  and  brave,  and  earnest;  so 
ber,  careful,  kind  of  heart,  and  loved,  oh !  so 
dearly,  by  the  one  who  tremblingly  said  "Yes," 
to  his  asking  once,  the  time  now  agone.  He 
is  our  rich  man.  He  works  and  he  sings, 
he  toils  and  he  whistles,  he  labors  and  he 
saves  to  make  home  happy  and  add  to  the 
comforts  of  his  little  retreat.  And  the  wages 
are  a  rich  reward  that  labor  brings,  for  its  hon 
esty  is  its  wealth.  And  his  home  grows  in 
beauty  as  he  nears  the  grave,  and  his  loved 
ones  follow  him  on  his  journey  to  that  land 
where  angels  are  our  guides,  and  stars  the 
lio;hts  of  God's  eternal  illumination! 

o 

This  week  a  book;   next  week   a  picture   of 
some    beauteous   scene,  or  of    some  man  who 


38  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

has  won  a  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  good; 
and  next  week  a  newspaper  or  magazine  to 
interest  each  week.  Then  a  carpet,  a  curtain, 
an  easy-chair,  a  mirror,  a  flower-plot,  another 
picture  —  home  beauties  and  comforts  rather  than 
the  heavy  eyes,  bloated  faces,  and  rotting  man 
hood  of  those  who  go,  even  in  their  own 
advance,  to  ruin  by  the  torturing  paths  of 
dissipation. 

Wife,  have  you  a  husband  like  our  rich 
man?  Then  love  him.  Forgive  him  when  he 
stumbles,  help  him  up  when  he  falls;  throw 
your  arms  about  him,  aid  him,  care  for  him, 
cheer  him,  encourage  him  in  the  good,  and 
be  happy,  no  matter  if  your  home  be  a  lit 
tle  one.  We  are  all  happier  than  we  think 
we  are.  We  are  all  happier  than  others! 

There  are  working-men  who  hate  us,  who 
know  us  not,  who  do  not  know  how  ear 
nestly  we  think  and  strive  to  benefit  them,  no 
matter  how  we  differ  politically.  We  would 


Little  Homes  and  Loved  Ones.  39 

see  them  happy,  their  homes  beautiful,  their 
earnings  saved  by  themselves;  and  to  all  these 
men,  true  kings  of  nobility,  we  wish  pros 
perity  and  happiness,  and  loved  homes  to  call 
their  own  each  and  every  Saturday  Night. 


IV. 

AN  EMPTY  HEAESE. 

went  by  not  five  minutes  since.  A 
black,  cold-looking  lonesome  hearse, 
drawn  by  two  sorry-looking  horses,  fol 
lowed  by  two  old-looking  carriages,  as  it  re 
turned  from  the  City  of  the  Dead  over  yonder. 
The  rain  fell  in  a  sort  of  drizzle,  cold  and  sick 
ening,  as  the  driver,  wrapped  in  an  old  water- 
(40) 


An  Empty  Hearse.  41 

proof,  bent  his  face  to  the  storm  and  urged  his 
team  to  a  little  faster  trot,  as  if  anxious  to 
get  father  from  the  grave  and  to  hasten 
home  to  rest  with  his  loved  ones.  And  the 
mourners  were  anxious  to  keep  up,  and  their 
steaming  horses  did. 

As  the  hearse  passed,  we  saw  by  the  rollers 
on  its  floor — they  were  far  apart — that  a  large 
coffin  had  rested  thereon,;  and  in  the  sanctum, 
when  it  was  reached,  we  stopped  writing  to 
think.  And  in  this  wise  ran  our  thoughts: 

That  driver  must  have  a  singular  life. 
Every  day  going  with  his  peculiar  freight, 
each  day  the  better  learning  the  road  to  the 
spot  he  will  in  time  reach,  as  well  as  any  of 
his  customers,  no  matter  whether  he  ever  saw 
the  final  city  or  the  road  leading  thereto! 
Wonder  if  he  ever  counts  his  trips  as  he  sits 
on  his  box  waiting,  and  wondering  what  num 
ber  his  last  will  be,  —  the  trip  but  one  way  for 
him,  two  ways  for  the  rest? 


42  Oar  Saturday  Nights. 

And  is  it  not  a  singular  journey  when  a 
man  must  go  alone?  No  guide!  No  friend 
along  to  help  kill  time,  for  time  has  helped 
kill  him.  No  asking  how  far  to  this  station 
or  that;  in  fact,  no  starting  on  the  trip  till 
hours  after  you  have  readied  your  final  desti 
nation  ! 

"Who  was  it?  Wo  do  not  know.  Millions 
do  not  know.  Millions  do  not  care  — do  not 
even  care  to  care!  The  empty  hearse  dodges 
up  Broadway,  of  less  account  than  a  milk-cart. 
Somebody  has  gone  home  this  Saturday  Night, 
and  the  great  world  cares  no  more  for  the 
sorrow  which  rests  in  the  home  once  his  than 
for  the  breeze  which  passed  yesterday.  But 
there  is  a  vacant  spot  in  his  home — a  wound 
so  deep  in  some  heart  or  hearts,  surely  God 
must  pity  and  heal !  No  matter  how  poor  he 
was,  somebody  loved  him.  Perhaps  he  was 
sinful,  —  we  all  are, — yet  somebody  loved  him 
and  looked  for  his  coming;  and  when  the  last 


An  Empty  Hearse.  43 

look  came,  and  the  unspoken  words  died  out 
as -lie  died,  and  the  last  pressure  of  his  hand, 
hard  though  the  palm  might  have  been,  was 
felt;  and  when  his  soul  cut  loose  from  earthly 
moorings  to  soar  away  to  the  infinite,  then 
went  the  hot  leaden  plummet  of  sorrow,  oh! 
so  deep  into  some  heart,  which  may  God  pity. 

This  death  is  a  terrible  thing  to  us;  not  be 
cause  it  is  death,  but  because  it  is  the  parting 
with  life  and  from  those  who  have  grown  into 
and  all  around  our  hearts  as  sunshine  plays 
through  branches  and  rests  on  flowers.  For 
the  future  we  have  no  fears.  God  is  mercy 
and  mercy  is  God.  God  is  the  concentration 
of  Faith;  and  those  who  rest  on  Him  and  His 
promises  never  will  fall  or  sink.  The  future 
is  all  of  joy  to  us — all  of  life,  love,  goodness, 
usefulness,  and  higher  intellect,  with  greater 
responsibilities  and  capacities  for  enjoyment 
and  none  for  sorrow.  It  is  not  death,  but  the 


44  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

parting  with  life  and  loved  ones  for  a  time, 
that  bothers  and  sets  thought  in  a  quiver. 

To  die  and  be  forgotten  is  something — yet 
it  is  nothing,  for  those  who  forget  us  will  be 
nothing  to  us  over  there!  To  die  and  bid  fare 
well  to  earth  will  be  but  ceasing  to  look  upon 
a  miserable  sketch  and  feasting  our  eyes  upon 
a  more  beautiful  picture  than  man  ever  saw; 
to  come  like  a  bit  of  sunshine  upon  those  who 
have  gone  before  us  to  look  upon  it,  and  to 
be  gladdened,  when  those  who  sincerely  mourn 
come  to  tap  us  on  the  shoulder  as  we  are  gaz 
ing  on  the  beautiful,  saying  to  us,  with  golden 
smiles  and  love-lit  eyes :  "  Darling ',  I  have 
come ! " 

But  it  is  terrible  to  die  and  know  that  you 
are  dying.  The  loved  one  or  ones  go  and 
come.  The  room  becomes  tiresome.  The 
couch  has  no  rest  in  it.  The  familiar  walls 
seem  as  if  already  in  the  possession  of  another. 
Some  loved  one  comes  with  drink  or  food  to 


An  Empty  Hearse.  45 

sustain  life;  she  pushes  back  the  hair  from 
an  aching  brow;  she  moves  like  an  angel, 
with  light,  careful  step,  for  her  shoes  are  of 
love;  and  she  touches  so  gently,  and  her 
pure  lips  touch  your  hand  or  face  with  their 
wondrous  electricity;  her  eye  is,  oh!  so  sad 
and  tearful,  as  she  waits  like  one  in  treble 
agony  for  that  robber  whose  approach  she 
fears,  for  he  will  take  "all  the  world"  from 
her. 

And  to  leave  her! — that  is  the  agony!  Who 
will  care  for  her  as  the  one  who  is  dying  ? 
Another  will  in  time,  perhaps,  and  perhaps 
not;  after  the  birds  have  twice  twittered  their 
vernal  odes, — after  the  flowers  have  twice 
listened  thereto,  —  some  one  else  will  be  dear 
as  you  have  been,  and  kiss  the  lips  you  would 
not  now  have  him  kiss  for  all  the  world  —  for 
they  are  hers!  Another  hand  will  hold  hers 
Saturday  Night  —  or  hold  his;  another  eye 
will  call  the  love  flames  to  hers ;  another  breast 


46  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

will  be  the  pillow  on  which  your  loved  one  has 
so  often  rested;  another  arm  will  hold  to  the 
heart  the  dear  one  you  cannot  bear  to  part 
with.  And  then  all  the  little  keepsakes  you 
-prize  will  be  emptied  into  some  old  box  or 
into  the  fire,  and  she  will  find  no  joy  in  the 
little  things  which  once  were  so  prized  by 
both  as  dottings  left  by  happy  passing  hours. 
And  this  is  agony  to  those  who  love.  And 
it  is  agony  to  think  that,  perhaps,  no  one 
else  will  care  for  your  loved  ones  as  you  did, 
and  that  they  may  suffer  some  day.  Then, 
weary  one,  how  much  fuller  the  cup  of  love 
she  will  bring  with  her  sunshine  when  she 
comes  to  surprise,  as  you  wait  to  welcome  in 
the  beautiful  land  of  the  leal ! 

Before  long  the  carriage  of  dignity  will 
call  for  us  —  for  writer  and  reader.  Not  this 
Saturday  Night,  but  before  some  of  the  next 
ones.  And  who  will  miss  us?  Who  of  all 


An  Empty  Hearse.  47 

the  world  will  be  sorry?  We  know;  and 
because  we  know  we  shall  be  missed,  we  care 
not  to  die  just  yet.  But  some  day  the  hearse 
will  call  for  us;  the  long  box  will  be  shoved 
into  it;  we  shall  be  taken  to  the  silent  city, 
and  in  time  forgotten  unless  we  work  well 
and  leave  good  deeds  to  call  us  to  mind. 

Their  tears  will  fall,  and  we  know  it.  Not 
mock  tears,  but  real  ones,  bursting  up  from 
the  heart,  for  a  friend  will  have  gone.  And 
then  somebody  will  hold  up  our  garments, 
look  at  them,  and  give  them  away.  Some 
body  will  look  at  the  watch  we  carry,  and  say, 
"  'Twas  his. "  And  somebody  will  wear  at 
parties  the  little  cross  we  wear,  emblem  of 
our  faith,  and  forget,  perhaps,  that  its  purity 
is  not  its  only  worth. 

And  somebody  will  claim  and  have  the 
thousands  of  beautiful  presents,  keepsakes, 
mementoes,  and  purchases  of  our  sanctums, 
but  will  any  one  prize  them  as  we  do?  And 


48  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

men  of  law,  executors,  and  administrators, 
will  open  drawers,  safes,  desks,  and  read 
hundreds  of  letters  and  documents,  finding 
in  them  nothing  of  value,  as  they  think,  all 
the  while  wondering  what  we  kept  them  for. 
And  they  will  find  political  records,  reputa 
tions  of  friends  and  enemies,  letters  and 
documents  in  cypher,  deeds  and  titles  to 
property,  unpublished  chapters  of  life,  foolish 
letters  and  good  ones,  scraps,  trinkets,  etc., 
no  one  can  tell  the  use  of.  And  they  will 
find  scores  of  packages  of  letters  marked, 
"Private  —  to  be  burnt,  unopened,  by  a  friend 
when  I  am  dead."  "Will  they  heed  our  request  ? 
Yes  —  if  they  are  friends.  And  all  the  little 
things,  trifles  in  themselves,  but  volumes 
each,  will  be  tossed  aside.  Little  buttons, 
bows,  ties,  pieces  of  ribbon,  shells  —  hundreds 
of  precious  things  to  us,  will  be  thrown  away; 
for  those  who  know  not  their  history  know 
not  their  worth  to  us,  as  stepping-stones,  when, 


An  Empty  Hearse.  49 

after  all  our  work  is  done,  each  clay  we  walk 
in  fancy  back  the  river  of  time  to  the  days 
of  long  agone. 

Well,  it  is  well  we  can  not  all  live  forever; 
there  would  be  no  more  good  folks  up 
yonder,  nor  bad  ones  down  there.  This  would 
be  a  tiresome  world  if  eternity  was  life 
here!  Thank  God,  there  is  a  home  over 
the  river  —  an  end  to  this  work  which  wears 
us  out  —  a  time  to  quit  —  a  hope  for  the  future, 
and  a  land  where  we  shall  meet  the  loved 
ones,  the  dear  ones,  the  worshipped  ones  who 
have  been  called  to  their  rest  before  us.  And 
thank  God  that  while  we  live,  all  of  us  can 
make  others  happy  if  we  will;  we  can  fit 
ourselves  for  happiness  hereafter,  can  mellow 
the  mould  in  which  we  must  rest,  by  being 
truer,  nobler,  and  better  than  we  would  be  but 
for  those  we  love  and  who  love  us  and  our  com 
ing  each  Saturday  Night. 
4 


HOME  ON   A   SHUTTER. 

'T  was  a  very  cold  Saturday  Kight, 
only  a  few  days  ago.  The  wind  liowled 
like  some  watch-dog  from  the  infernal, 
hunting  for  one  absent.  Signs  creaked  as  they 
swung,  and  rich  men  on  the  street  hurried  by 
with  fur-wrapped  ears  and  well-gloved  hands. 

All  the  week  gone  but  this.     An  hour  more 
(50) 


Home  on  a  Shutter.  51 

labor  and  we  will  close  the  business  desk, 
and  finish  the  week  with  a  Saturday  Night 
article.  First,  we  must  make  a  call  six  blocks 
away. 

Out  in  the  cold.  How  the  air  dances  in  to 
warm  by  our  body  as  we  walk  along.  Five 
o'clock  and  thirty  minutes  by  the  great  clock  up 
there  over  the  City  Ilall :  later  than  w^e  thought, 
so  wo  hurry  across  Chatham  and  up  Centre. 

From  a  cross  street  they  come,  four  men, 
stout,  rough-clad,  hard-palmed,  honest-hearted 
men,  with  regular  step  and  sad  faces  —  four 
working-men,  to  us  unknown. 

Four  men  carrying  a  shutter  from  some 
window.  And  on  it  is  a  man,  dead, —  one  hand 
under  his  head,  as  if  he  slept.  lie  sleeps,  and 
he  sleeps  well!  Over  his  face  is  thrown  a 
well-worn  coat  he  used  to  wear.  It  does  not 
keep  him  warm,  but  it  keeps  the  wind  from 
driving  the  hair  into  a  horrid  wound  over 


52  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

his  temple,  from  wliicli  blood  and  brains  ooze 
slowly,  as  if  sorry  to  leave  their  liome ! 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Michael  O'Brien,  sir.  lie  was  just  killed, 
sir." 

"How,   and  where!" 

"He  was  working  with  us,  sir,  clown  on 
Pearl  Street,  on  a  new  building,  when  a  cap 
stone  gave  way,  sir,  and  took  poor  Michael 
in  its  fall;  and  never  a  word  spoke  he  since. 
And  we  arc  takin'  him  home  to  his  wife 
and  children,  and  it's  a  sorry  night  they'll 
have  of  it,  for  they  loved  him  so!" 

And  with  the  four  went  another  to  lend 
a  hand  to  those  in  need.  Went  to  a  working- 
man's  home  on  another  street.  Into  the  door, 
up  two  flights,  slowly  —  slowly,  for  the  stair 
way  is  very  narrow. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Open  the  door  wider,  for  it  is  all  sorrow 
we  bring.  Steady,  men  —  on  that  chair  —  on 


Home  on  a  Shutter.  53 

this  —  softly,  now.  There,  now,  we  are  home 
with  him,  and  God  pity  those  who  mourn ! 
AYords  are  of  no  use  here.  Even  curses  would 
not  be  heard.  Tear  off  the  coat  —  kiss  the  lips 
—  kiss  them  again  and  again;  lift  your  head 
and  look  into  that  face,  upon  that  wound; 
press  back  the  hair  from  the  brow  you  have 
so  of  ten  kissed.  Stand  back,  men — stand  back! 
She  is  the  one  that  needs  pity,  for  hers  is  the 
heart  that  now  drinks  in  sorrow  as  never  before. 

Good-night,  friends  ;  we  will  go  now.  Xever 
mind  thanks;  never  mind  wrho  we  are, —  sim 
ply  a  man  who  came  to  aid,  not  to  gratify 
curiosity. 

Down  stairs  and  into  the  street.  Sobs  and 
wailing  behind  us.  Her  voice,  and  the  voice 
of  two  little  ones,  now  fatherless,  and  face  to 
face  with  death.  God  pity  them 

The  table  was  ready  to  spread.  The  room 
was  being  put  in  order  against  his  coming,  but 
not  in  this  way.  The  work  of  the  week  nearly 


54  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

ended;  waiting  for  him  and  his  smile,  his 
greeting,  his  coming  with  his  earnings, —  a  little 
present  for  each  of  the  little  ones,  and  a  warm, 
rich,  honest  love-kiss  for  the  one  who  is  now 
leagues  away  in  the  terrible  valley,  heart-bro 
ken  and  in  agony. 

All  the  week  he  toiled,  as  we  learned,  early 
and  late.  A  strong,  honest,  healthy  man, 
working  to  better  his  home  and  make  his 
loved  ones  happy.  His  hands  were  hard,  but 
he  was  good.  lie  was  unused  to  sharp  tricks, 
to  speculations,  to  legalized  robbing ;  he  was 
simply  a  working-man,  and  his  loss  is  not  felt ! 
Not  felt !  God  above  us !  The  capstone  that 
fell  and  crushed  his  life  was  a  million  times 
lighter  than  the  loss  she  bears  or  the  sorrow 
she  knows! 

lie  was  but  a  laborer.  lie  toiled  all  day. 
lie  earned  of  dollars  but  few,  but  he  earned 
them,  and  that  is  better  than  to  steal  them. 
He  was  but  one  man  among  many,  but  he  was 


Home  on  a  Shutter.  55 

a  man,  a  husband,  a  father.  He  lived  in  no 
palace,  but  he  had  a  happier  home  to  go  to 
nights  than  many  a  man  of  wealth.  Hour 
after  hour  he  worked.  Stone  after  stone  he 
hauled  up.  His  mark  was  left  on  many  a  spot 
where  men  of  labor  leave  their  marks.  But 
now  he  has  gone. 

No  band  will  follow  him  to  the  grave;  no 
long  line  of  empty  carriages  filled  with  men 
chatting  of  horses,  of  bonds,  of  houses,  of  wine, 
of  women,  of  nothing,  will  follow  him  home 
but  loving  hearts  will  mourn  for  him,  for  he 
deserves  tears. 

Told  and  put  away  his  clothes.  Put  back 
that  plate;  leave  back  the  knife,  fork,  and 
spoon;  no  more  set  his  chair  to  the  table,  for 
he  has  gone  home  where  there  are  no  Saturday 
Nights  terrible  as  this  is  to  the  mourners.  Then, 
weeping  one,  live  with  his  memory.  Life  is 
an  enigma.  Death  is  the  reality.  We  meet 
here,  we  become  acquainted,  and  then  the 


5G  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

one  -most  loving  goes  to  make  a  home  over 
there. 

Think  of  his  kind  words,  his  good  acts; 
think  of  the  good  he  did  while  he  lived; 
forget  the-  hasty  words,  the  unkind  ones,  if  ever 
he  spoke  them.  And  you  who  have  to-night 
the  forms  of  loved  ones  in  your  homes  waiting 
for  the  tomb,  God  pity  you.  And  you  who  do 
not  have  death  with  you  to-night,  may  you 
not  have  it  for  years  to  come.  "Welcome  the 
tired  ones  as  they  come  from  the  shop.  Give 
them  a  kiss  and  a  kind  word.  Make  home 
pleasant,  and  call  to  its  sacred  reach  the  loved 
ones.  Let  those  who  labor  make  their  homes 
happy,  and  their  home  ones  happy;  and,  when 
our  work  be  done  here,  may  all  who  are 
deserving  live  in  memory  loved,  as  was  poor 
Michael  O'Brien. 

Who  of  the  rich  ever  think  of  the  poor? 
Who  of  them  will  remember  kindly,  and  give 
good  thoughts  to  the  ones  who  toil?  They 


Home  on  a  Shutter.  57 

have  hearts  and  loves,  as  have  the  rich,  and 
quite  often  better  ones.  They  have  wives,  and 
little  ones,  and  aims,  and  desires.  They  are 
deserving,  as  all  are  who  labor.  They  make  the 
city  and  finish  nature.  Yet  few  there  are  who 
care  for  the  working-men,  the  ones  who  live  in 
tenement  houses.  If  the  rich  would  treat  those 
who  labor  better,  the  world  w^ould  be  the  gainer, 
and  therefore  do  we  ask  those  w^ho  are  favored 
by  fortune  and  unjust  laws,  when  they  go 
home,  to  give  a  thought  to  the  poor  ones,  the 
weeping  and  heart-broken  ones,  who  are  always 
with  us,  and  oftener  more  deserving  than  those 
who  pass  them  by  with  a  sneer  from  Monday 
morn  till  Saturday  Night 


VI. 


OUR  TEEASUEES. 


Before  the  sun  went  home  this  Satur 
day  Night  to  tell  God  who  had  striven 
the  hardest  for  heaven  the  week  past,  a  mil 
lionaire  rode  by.  He  lives  in  a  palace  — 
we  in  a  cottage.  He  has  his  coachman,  out 

riders,  servants,  and  waiters  ;  we  have  not  one. 
(58) 


Our  Treasures.  59 

He  hoards  dollars  as  we  do  tlie  kind  words  of 
our  friends,  while  his  bonds  are  many,  as  are 
the  curses  we  could  heap  upon  those  who,  by 
legislation,  made  him  rich  and  our  friends  poor. 
lie  is  a  millionaire ;  we  are  not.  He  lives  at 
ease;  we  live  by  labor. 

He  dines  at  six.  Silver  and  gold  are  upon 
his  table.  A  professional  cook  tempts  his 
wine-wet  palate  with  viands  none  but  the  rich 
can  buy.  Servants,  with  sharp  eyes  to  detect 
the  slightest  wish,  hasten  to  hand  him  this  and 
that.  His  wrife  sparkles  the  diamonds  which 
robbed  her  eyes  of  love's  wondrous  lustre  when 
she  took  them  as  the  price  of  her  heart !  Jewelry, 
lace,  silk,  satin,  plush,  velvet,  damask,  silverware, 
gas-light  mellowed  by  tinted  shades  of  glass  or 
porcelain,  broadcloth  and  echoes  of  dissipation, 
— grand,  costly,  and  envied  in  his  home.  lie 
eats  and  ho  drinks.  lie  dines  and  he  wines. 
He  rides  and  he  thrives.  Servants  open  doors, 
brush  the  lint  from  lappel  and  body,  the  dust 


60  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

from  liat  and  boot.  lie  gives  checks  and  lives 
high,  does  the  millionaire.  And  his  children 
are  cared  for  by  professional  nurses.  They  call 
him  governor.  His  wife,  by  forms  ceremonial, 
empties  the  purse  he  fills,  and  is  happy  in 
her  rouge,  her  diamonds,  •  her  carriage,  her 
toilet,  her  establishment,  her  position  in  that 
society  which  is  kept  within  proper  "bonds." 

"Happy?" 

No,  she  is  not  happy!  Yfives  by  marriage 
and  wives  by  brevet !  He  lives  here ;  he  revels 
there,  where  wine  and  dissipation  pave  the 
way  for  further  chapters  but  nearer  home. 
He  rode  by  in  his  carriage,  and  a  thousand 
turn  to  mention  and  envy  him  whose  home  is 
rich,  but  far  from  heart-warmed.  Yes,  envy 
the  millionare.  And  you  may,  but  the  glitter 
of  his  coach,  the  style  of  his  carriage,  the  pranc 
ing  of  his  horses,  the  sparkle  of  his  diamond- 
covered  wife,  the  rich  odor  of  his  anticipated 


Our  Treasures.  61 

dinner,  have  no   charms  for  us,  and  we   envy 
him  not. 

WEALTH  ! 

Yes,  we  are  rich.  Ou^s  is  a  cottage,  or  a 
cabin,  if  you  will.  It  is  np-stairs  —  on  the 
ground  floor— in  the  city— in  the  country— of 
wood__of  stone— of  brick.  Marble  for  the 
rich — brick  for  the  poor!  We  have  no  car 
riage,  no  horses,  no  servants,  no  wine,  no 
haughty  or  petulent  keeper  of  the  purse  to 
purchase  from  with  gifts  when  love  hungers 
for  the  beautiful  fulfilment!  But  we  have  a 
home.  The  rooms  are  not  large.  The  furni 
ture  is  not  rich;  but  in  that  home  is  a  greater 
treasure  than  the  millionaire  ever  possessed. 
Our  Treasure.  Our  Darling.  Sworn  to  love. 
Bond  paying'  golden  interest  hourly.  Dearer 
treasure  than  money  ever  purchased.  Our 
Darling!  Pretty  soon  we  shall  put  the  pen 
hi  its  place  and  go  and  meet  her.  Shall  walk, 


G2  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

for  we  have  no  carriage.  And  shall  walk  fast. 
And  we  shall  meet  her  at  the  door,  and  bless 
God  for  the  kiss  of  welcome.  And  as  we 
walk  side  by  side  to  the  chair  set  for  us,  can 
draw  our  treasure  to  our  heart,  and  say,  "I 
love  you,  darling."  And  she  welcomes  us  Sat 
urday  Kight,  and  every  night;  and  her  pure, 
true,  trusting,  and  beautiful  love  keeps  us  from 
wandering.  And  we  sit  by  our  little  fire,  hand 
in  hand.  Diamonds  never  threw  light  as  do 
the  eyes  of  our  darling,  for  they  light  from 
soul  to  soul,  making  noonday  of  otherwise 
night.  And  she  gives  us,  oh!  such  tempting 
welcome.  IS~o  servants  are  near  to  listen  and 
tell.  The  rattle  of  playthings  on  the  floor 
disturbs  us  not,  for  we  knew  it,  and  'twas  as 
God  intended.  And  as  no  one  hears,  we  sit, 
palm  to  palm,  and  thus  come  the  words  of  the 
heart :  — 

"Darling,  /  love  you!     All   the  day  have  1 
toiled,  till    hand  and    brain    be   weary,  but   I 


Our  Treasures.  63 

never  forgot  you — your  love  or  your  kisses. 
I  went  forth  in  the  morning  to  labor.  Per 
haps  it  is  but  little  we  have,  but,  thank  God, 
darling,  it  was  honestly  won;  we  love  each 
other  and  are  happy.  I  try  to  be  good  and 
honest,  and,  guarded  by  your  love,  succeed. 
And  no  temptation  yet  met  has  wron  me  from 
my  vows  and  from  you;  no  place  has  lured 
me  from  my  home  and  the  loved;  no  wish 
have  I  had  for  something  beyond  the  confines 
of  my  happy  dominion.  All  the  day,  and  all 
the  week  I  have  toiled  there,  as  you  have 
cared  here,  and  see,  darling,  how  our  home 
grows  more  and  more  beautiful  as  your  taste 
displays  the  little  tilings  purchased  with  the 
earnings  of  my  hand  and  brain. 

"God  bless  you,  darling,  and  make  me  always 
good,  and  kind,  and  true,  and  earnest,  and  de 
serving  of  the  love  you  give  me.  Here  is  my 
home ;  here  is  my  heart /  here  is  my  treasure  / 
here  I  live  as  there  I  labor,  and  every  hour 


64  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

not  given  to  toil  is  to  tliee  and  happiness.  And 
as  I  go  I  will  think  of  thee ;  of  the  time  when 
you  said  "Yes"  to  my  wooing;  and  never  will 
I  do  that  which  would  pain  your  heart,  and 
then  I  shall  ever  be  happy,  and  love  you  alone, 
my  darling,  queen  of  my  heart-warmed  home." 

And  her  hand  presses  mine;  her  eyes  are 
like  rays  from  the  eternal,  as  she  looks  the 
words  tongue  cannot  speak.  Her  lips  are  so 
sweet  and  warm,  so  full  of  that  wondrous  elec 
tricity  which  all  know  not  of ;  her  cheek  rests 
on  my  shoulder,  and  from  her  heart,  from  her 
loved  lips,  come  these  words :  - 

"God  bless  you,  darling,  for  your  manhood 
and  its  unsullied  bringing.  The  day  has  not 
beei}  long,  for  I  knew  you  would  hasten.  And 
I  was  happy,  as  here  and  there  my  hands  found 
employment.  And  see  how  nicely  I  have  fixed 
this,  and  that;  for  thus  you  like  them,  as  thus 
I  fixed  them.  And,  darling,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  been  good  and  true  to  us  both.  I  am 


Our  Treasures.  65 

glad  if  my  love  is  the  shield  that  keeps  you 
from  falling  when  tempted,  as  we  all  are. 
You  have  toiled  all  the  day,  now  rest  with 
me, —  on  this  breast,  by  these  lips,  in  this  heart 
of  mine,  for  all  are  yours.  Come,  darling,  to 
the  feast,  and  none  so  sweet  as  by  love  alone 
invited!  You  are  home,  where  all  is  yours, 
with  never  a  regret,  or  a  wish  for  another.  I 
love  you,  darling,  and  I  pray  Him  above  to 
give  us  hearts  to  know  our  treasures, — to  know 
who  are  the  truly  rich;  and  I  pray  Him  to 
spare  us  to  enjoy  all  there  is  that  is  truly 
beautiful  in  life  till  we  rest  again  united 

where  there  is  no  Saturday  Night. 
5 


VII. 
ABOUT  A  LITTLE  GIEL  WHOSE  NAME  is  LULU. 

tlie  faintest  little   tap  at  the  door. 
"  Come  in  !  " 

Sitting  in  an  easy-chair,  watching 
the  burning  coke  in  the  grate  making  faces, 
and  half-listening  to  conversation,  we  were 
thinking  of  the  poor  ones  who  had  no  easy- 
chairs  and  cheery  fires.  The  door  opened 
(60) 


About  a  Little  Girl  Wlwse  Name  is  Lulu.  07 

slowly;  with  hesitating  step  there  entered  a 
young  girl  of  eleven  years. 

"Please,  do  you  want  to  buy  some  hooks 
and  eyes?" 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  said  a  gentleman,  who 
was  busy  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

"Please,  I  sell  them  very  cheap,  and  my 
mother  is  very  poor." 

And  while  he  wras  calling  the  attention  of 
the  good-hearted  lady  of  the  house,  we  took 
up  the  conversation : 

"Come  here,  little  girl." 

And  she  came, —  a  sweet-faced,  modest  lit 
tle  thing,  in  her  hand  a  little  paper  box. 

"What  have  you  to  sell?" 

"  Hooks  and   eyes,   and  a  belt-buckle." 

"Not  much  of  stock,  have  you?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  much ;    for  we  are  too  poor." 

"How  do  you  sell  them?" 

"  Five  cents  a  card." 


68  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

"  It  is  after  dark ;  isn't  it  late  for  little  girlg 
to  be  out?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  we  have  no  other  time." 

"Who  is  we?" 

"  My  little  sister ;   she  is  nine  years  old." 

Another  faint  little  teeny  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  !  " 

And  in  came  the  little  sister,  with  a  smaller 
box.  She  was  a  pretty  little  child, —  her  eyes 
seeming  just  like  the  eyes  of  a  dear  little 
pet  who  calls  us  papa,  and  kisses  us  such 
loving  welcome,  and  whose  years  are  no 
more  than  the  little  one's  before  us. 

"Come  here,  little  one." 

And  she  came  and  stood  beside  her  sister. 
"Who  could  help  putting  his  arm  around  her 
little  innocent  form,  and  drawing  her  closer 
to  him?  She  had  no  silks,  but  her  face  and 
eyes  were  enough  to  win  any  heart. 

"Come,  sit  on  our  knee.  !N"ow,  tell  me  all 
about  it.  What  is  your  name?" 


About  a  Little  Giil  Whose  Name  is  Lulu.  69 

"  Lulu. 

"That  is  a  pretty  name.  I  like  it.  Where 
is  your  papa?" 

"lie  was  killed  in  the  army,  in  a  battle." 

"Where  is  your  mother?" 

"She  lives  in  a  room  on  East  Eleventh 
Street,  sir." 

"What  does  she  do?" 

"She  sews  when  she  is  able  to  and  can  get 
any  work." 

"  Is  she  sick  sometimes  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,  a  good  deal.  And  she  can't  sup 
port  all  of  us." 

"How  many  little  ones  has  she?" 

"Three,  sir, —  my  brother,  who  is  thirteen, 
my  sister,  and  I." 

"What  does  your  brother  do?" 

"He  has  a  place  in  a  store,  and  earns  two 
dollars  a  week." 

"Does  he  board  at  home?" 

"Yes,   sir." 


70  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

"And  you  and  your  sister  sell  little  things?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  after  we  get  through  helping 
mother,  we  sell  about  one  hour  each  evening." 

"How  much  have  you  sold  to-night?" 

"Fourteen  cents'  worth." 

"How  much  have  you  sold?" — to  the  sister. 

"  Thirty-five  cents,  sir,  with  what  you  paid 
me." 

"  Quite  a  trade.  Xow,  I  want  a  card  of 
hooks  and  eyes  to  comb  my  hair  with,  and  a 
belt  buckle  to  put  on  my  wrist." 

The  little  girl  said  it  was  funny,  and  sold 
us  the  articles,  when  the  conversation  was  re 
sumed  : 

"What  does  your  mother  sew  on?" 

"  She  embroiders  and  makes  aprons  and  lit 
tle  things  for  any  one  who  wants  her  to." 

"Is  she  very  poor?" 

"Yes,  sir;  we  didn't  have  any  bed,  nor  stove, 
nor  furniture,  when  we  moved  in  where  we 
live  now." 


About  a  Little  Girl  Wliose  Name  is  Zulu.  71 

"When  was  that?" 

"This  winter." 

"Was  it  cold?" 

"Yes,  sir;  we  nearly  froze  some  nights; 
but  we  slept  close  together,  and  mamma  took 
care  of  us. 

"  Do  you  go  to  school  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

"Why  not?" 

"Please,  sir,  I  have  no  clothes  good  enough 
to  wear.  But  mamma  will  get  me  some,  some 
day,  and  I  wont  look  so  ragged,  and  can  go." 

"Can  you  read?" 

« 

"Yes,  sir,  in  the  third  reader." 

"Well,  Lulu,  tell  your  mamma  when  she 
is  ready  to  send  you  to  school  to  have  you 
come  here,  and  I  will  buy  you  all  the  lit 
tle  clothes  you  want  for  one  year,  for  you 
put  me  in  mind  of  another  little  girl." 

And  the  good  lady  where  we  were  that 
evening  said  also, — 


72  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

"Yes,  Lulu,  he  will  do  it,  for  lie  said  lie 
would ;  and  I'll  make  youe  a  nice  little  hat  to 
wear." 

And  two  little  tears  came  into  her  eves  as 
she  tried  to  say,  "Thank  you." 

Looking  upon  a  fruit-basket  filled  with  oranges 
on  a  centre-table,  we  wondered  if  she  had  had 
any  lately,  and  asked, — 

"Have  you  had  any  oranges  lately?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  a  gentleman  gave  rne  one  a 
good  while  ago." 

"Here  is  money  to  buy  a  nice  one  for  your 

brother,  your    sister,    and    your    mamma,   and 

• 

yourself." 

She  dropped  her  head  as  if  thinking,  and 
then,  furtively  looking  us  in  the  face,  said, — 

"Please,  sir,  Td  rather  luy  some  calces  for 
supper? 

"  Haven't  you  been  to  supper  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

Then  we  thought  how  just  like  a  man  it  was  to 


About  a  Little  Girl  Whose  Name  is  Lulu.  73 

not  think,  and  asked  where  she  lived  more  par 
ticularly.  And  she  told  us,  —  a  few  doors  east  of 
Second  Avenue,  on  Eleventh  Street,  just  oppo 
site  a  neat  little  bakery,  where  she  could  get 
the  cakes. 

Putting  on  hat  and  overcoat,  with  the  two  little 
ones  we  went  down  stairs  from  the  cheerful  room 
into  the  street,  to  find,  first  the  bakery,  then  the 
mother.  And  the  little  ones  told  us  how  their 
papa  was  killed  in  battle ;  how  they  once  had  a 
plenty.  And  little  Lulu  said  God  was  the  best 
friend  she  had,  and  her  mother  next.  She  said 
God  would  always  care  for  the  poor  if  they  would 
trust  him,  and  that  she  prayed  to  him  every  night. 
And  she  went  to  Sunday-school,  and  tried  to  be 
a  good  little  girl. 

Here  was  perfection  of  faith ;  and  we  could 
not  help  thinking  that  the  blessed  Jesus,  when 
on  earth,  could  not  help  saying,  "Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not, 
for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 


74-  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

We  found  the  bakery,  and  a  pleasant-voiced 
woman  waiting  on  customers  therein.  Then  we 
crossed  directly  over  the  street  into  a  tenement 
house,  and,  guided  by  the  little  ones,  found  the 
room  where  they  lived.  And  we  found  a  middle- 
aged  women,  worn  with  care.  But  she  was  good 
—  her  eyes  and  her  face  and  her  words  told  it. 
She  made  aprons  and  all  such  work.  And  she 
told  us,  a  stranger,  that  once  she  lived  in  Lodi, 
Seneca  County,  ISTew  York ;  that  her  husband 
was  a  music-teacher.  And  then  she  told  us  that 
he  went  South  for  his  health ;  was  drafted  into 
the  Southern  army,  and  killed  in  battle.  Then 
she  came  North,  destitute  of  all  save  her  little 
ones  and  faith  in  God. 

Then  we  asked  Lulu  to  bring  us  an  apron 
for  a  lady  the  next  afternoon  at  five  o'clock,  and 
went  out  into  the  busy  street,  and  from  there  to 
meet  in  council  brethren  of  the  mystic  tie. 

And  all  the  night  we  were  in  dreamland ;  and 
pure-eyed  little  girls  were,  with  tears  in  their  eyes, 


About  a  Little  Girl  Whose  Name  is  Lulu.  75 

trying  to  say  "  Thanlc  you"  or  were  nestling  by 
our  side.  The  next  day  we  left  the  city  for  the 
West,  two  hours  earlier  than  we  intended,  and  did 
not  see  Lulu.  But  she  did  not  forget  us,  as  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  will  show  : 

"251  EAST  THIRTEENTH  STREET,  ) 
NEW  YORK  CITY,  April  13.     J 

•  •  •  "Little  Lulu  came  promptly  at  five 
o'clock,  with  a  beautiful  apron  made  expressly 
for  you  and  in  her  sweet  little  hand  a  pink  she  had 
bought  for  you.  She  felt  quite  disappointed  at 
not  seeing  you.  But  Lizzie  bought  the  apron 
for  you  and  appropriated  the  pink.  She  came 
again,  last  night,  with  another  apron,  which  I 
sold  for  her,  for  two  dollars  to  a  gentleman  below. 
She  says  when  you  return  she  will  come  and  see 
you." 

Saturday  Night.  —  The  hand  on  the  watch-dial 
before  us  near  twelve.  Sitting  by  the  bedside  of 
a  sick  friend,  we  write  this  in  lieu  of  our  usual 


76  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

reveries.  It  is  a  simple  little  story  we  Lave  told 
above,  exactly  as  it  occurred,  as  any  one  can  learn. 
And  from  our  other  city  in  the  "West,  we  write, 
wondering  where  is  the  little  Lulu,  and  if  her 
faith  in  God  is  still  the  same.  And  we  think  of 
the  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  that  are  of 
God's  poor  who  are  uncared  for.  Children  of 
working-men  and  working-women ;  little  orphans, 
wrho  never  know  of  parental  love ;  little  wander 
ers  to  eternity,  who  have  no  one  to  buy  them 
oranges,  cakes,  dolls,  playthings,  or  keepsakes. 

In  thought  to-night  we  have  been  far  away, 
looking  into  tenement  houses ;  into  garrets,  cel- 
lars,  and  hovels  ;  into  little  beds  in  orphan  asy 
lums  ;  looking  into  the  faces  of  the  poor  and  the 
innocent  who  battle  daily  with  fate.  How  few 
there  are  who  know  how  others  suffer — few 
there  are  who  care.  God  bless  the  Christian 
mother  who  suffers ;  who  taught  her  little  ones 

'  O 

to  pray,  and  who  is  winning  a  crown  to  wear  in 
the  beautiful  Eternal  Land. 


About  a  Little  Girl  WJwse  Name  is  Lulu.  77 

And  we  have  all  the  night  been  thinking  of 
the  ones  who  profess  to  be  Christians  and  to  care 
for  their  fellow-men;  who  spend  thousands  of 
dollars  for  fashionable  churches,  cushioned  pews, 
swell  ministers,  and  solid  silver  or  gold  commun 
ion  service.  Little  do  they  care  for  the  poor  and 
the  needy.  Their  eyes  look  up  the  tall  steeples 
they  have  built,  but  seldom  down  to  the  bare  feet 
and  ragged  garments  of  the  "  tears  of  God"  that 
plead  for  care  and  notice.  We  love  the  poor 
and  do  not  care  for  the  rich.  We  have  no  money 
for  spires  with  gilded  domes,  or  tinkling  inven 
tions  to  suspend  therein,  nor  for  high-priced 
pews,  with  elastic  backs  and  velvet  trimmings. 
Time  enough  for  these  when  we  turn  hppocrite 
and  from  softness  of  brain  try  to  deceive  Deity 
by  studying  a  fashion  book  rather  than  kneeling 
before  Him  in  earnest,  secret  prayer. 

Be  kind  to  the  poor !  They  have  few  friends 
on  earth — especially  if  they  be  white.  God  made 
them  white ;  they  are  not  to  blame !  Christians 


78  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

pray  for  them,  then  over  church  doors  write,  "  No 
admittance  here ! "  They  erect  elegant  sleeping 
places  for  themselves,  while  drowsy  ministers  are 
spinning  their  cant  and  style,  but  never  think  of 
beds  for  the  little  ones  who  are  homeless.  They 
visit  caucuses,  visit  election  places,  visit  political 
meetings,  but  have  no  time  to  dry  tears  or  mellow 
the  hearts  of  those  who  need  sympathy. 

To  all  the  mothers,  we  say,  "Have  faith."  And 
to  all  our  little  friends,  who  read  this,  those 
words  :  "  Think  how  good  your  fathers  and  moth 
ers  are  to  you,  and  rejoice  that  you  have  a  home 
and  some  one  to  love  you,  and  always  speak  kindly 
to  the  poor,  even  if  you  can  give  nothing  to  make 
them  happier,  and  we  shall  be  glad  to  know  that 
if  we  have  done  no  good,  at  least  we  have  done 
no  harm  or  wrong  this  Saturday  Night. 


VIII. 

Sucn  A  LITTLE  COFFIN  ! 

'T  was  Dot  twice  the  length  of  the  sheet  of 
paper  on  which  we  write  this  article ! 

A  little  coffin — a  little  bit  of  a  coffin, 
not  large  enough  to  contain  half  the  playthings 
a  little  girl  we  know  of  has  to  amuse  herself 
with. 


It  was  not  a  casket,  or  burial  case  with  silver 

(79) 


80  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

handles,  white  satin,  silver  fringe,  and  glass  sky 
light  to  the  home  of  the  departed.  All  these  are 
for  the  rich  men — the  bondholders,  whose  chil 
dren  are  said  to  be  better  than  the  little  children 
of  working-men.  It  was  simply  a  little  plain 

coffin  made  from  black  walnut,  and  it  was  being 

*  o 

carried  into  a  house  on  Canal  Street  as  we  walked 
home  this  Saturday  Night,  very  weary,  from  our 
work. 

!No  one  else  noticed  it.  A  poor  man  came  to 
the  door  when  the  undertaker  rang  the  bell. 
He  looked  sad  and  lonely,  just  as  thousands  we 
know  would  look  if  a  little  coffin  should  be 
wanted  in  their  homes  to-night!  Hundreds 
hurried  by;  who  of  them  thought  of  the 
mourners? 

Slowly  we  walked  home.  Somebody  was  in 
the  depths  of  sorrow.  "Who  it  was  we  knew  not. 
We  could  not  keep  from  thinking,  and  after 
supper  we  went  back  to  the  house  and  rang  the 


Such  a  Little  Coffin!  81 

bell.     The  man,  with  a  sad  face,  came  to  tlio 

door. 

I 

"Good  evening,  sir.  Can  a  stranger,  who 
means  well,  be  of  service  to  you?" 

"  Oh !  thank  you ;  but  it  is  not  much  a  stranger 
or  a  friend  can  do.  WLo  are  you?  Why  come 
you  here  ?  We  have  never  met." 

"Simply  a  friend.  I  have  nothing  to  do;  I 
saw  the  little  coffin  come  in;  perhaps  I  can  do 
some  good  —  and  I  felt  like  coming.  That  is 
all." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  welcome !  But  it  is  all 
sadness  here  now.  Come  this  way." 

And  we  walked  into  a  little  room  where  the 
little  coffin  was.  A  little  boy,  not  four  years 
born,  rested  there.  The  coffin  was  on  a  table. 
The  sweet  little  face,  so  waxen  and  fair,  did 
not  seem  like  death,  but  for  the  little  rosebud 
beside  the  pale  temple.  The  great,  big  tears 
came  down  so  fast  over  the  brown  face  of  our 
6 


82  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

friend, — for,  if  in  trouble  he  was  our  friend, — 
as  lie  said,  — 

"He  was  our  only  treasure,  and  we  did  so 
love  him." 

"Where  is  his  mother?" 

"She  is  sick,  sir, — worn  out  with  nervous 
excitement, —  and  is  in  our  room,  almost  heart 
broken." 

And  we  found  her  weeping  bitterly,  and  as 
we  sat  by  the  side  of  the  .lounge  on  which  she 
reclined,  we  could  only  say,  "Indeed,  I  am 
very,  very  sorry  for  you."  And  we  saw  a  little 
pin  on  his  bosom,  till  then  unnoticed. 

"Are  you  a  Mason?" 

"  I  am,  or  I  try  to  be  one." 

"Well,  brother,  the  light  in  the  East  is 
still  bright;  those  are  the  most  favored  who 
are  earliest  called  from  labor  to  refreshment. 

Just  a  little  coffin.  ISTo  one  would  notice  it 
in  a  city  like  this.  The  hearse  passes  along,  a 


•Smh  a  Little  Coffin!  83 

few  carriages  try  to  keep  up  as  tlie  driver  hurries 
through  the  tangled  teams  and  over  horse-car 
tracks.  Then  he  stops,  a  jam  of  carriages  is 
formed,  and  a  policeman  says,  in  a  coarse  voice, 
"Move  on,  move  on!"  He  might  have 
seen  it  was  but  a  little  coffin  and  spoken  a  little 
more  kindly.  Ko  one  could  have  spoken  so 
harshly  who  mourned.  The  omnibus  with  its 
load,  hurried  by;  a  carriage,  filled  with  laughing 
ladies,  hurried  by,  and  those  on  its  cushioned 
seats  never  cared  to  look  at  the  little  coffin 
even  for  one  little  minute.  A  drayman,  saw 
what  it  was  and  kindly  waited  a  moment ;  his 
eyes  seeming  to  say,  "  I  am  sorry  for  some 
body." 

And  so  they  bore  it  away  over  the  river. 
The  hearse  on  the  ferry-boat  stood  beside  a 
market  wagon,  on  which  the  driver  sat  whistling 
an  opera  air.  A  dandy-looking  swell  stood 
with  cane  in  hand,  one  foot  on  the  hub  of  the 
hearse,  looking  with  half-satisfied  eye  on  the 


84  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

pretty  ankle  of  a  girl  who  was  leaning  and 
looking  over  the  railing  of  the  boat.  The 
coffin  was  not  so  small  as  the  ankle,  but  he  could 
not  see  it. 

And  when  we  reached  the  other  side,  all 
hurried  off.  The  crowed  jammed,  and  men 
swore.  Some  went  this  way,  some  that.  "We 
never  saw  their  faces  before,  as  we  remember 
— never  shall  again!  But  somebody  will  see 
them  some  day.  They  will  be  in  coffins,  looking 
up  to  Him  who  sees  little  coffins  as  well  as  big 
ones.  If  this  had  been  a  big  one ;  if  there  had 
been  four  horses  with  nodding  plumes,  a  silver- 
trimmed  casket,  instead  of  a  plain  little  coffin,  a 
long  string  of  carriages,  half -empty, —  folks  would 
have  asked  who  it  was  that  was  thus  keeping 
ahead  of  us,  and  at  tea-tables  would  have  told 
the  news.  And  folks  would  have  asked  how 
much  money  he  had  left;  that  is,  how  much 
good  he  mio;ht  have  done  but  did  not! 

O  O 

But  it  was  only  a  little  coffin ;  three  carriages 


Such  a  Little  Coffin!  85 

followed  it;  it  was  the  child  of  a  working 
man,  but,  with  it,  to  God,  went  the  grief -stricken 
hearts  of  those  who  mourned  because  their  only 
joint  treasure  had  been  called  home.  Never 
mind.  He  who  is  so  good  is  the  great  never- 
dying  echo  of  "Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  Heaven."  And  He  will  always 
welcome  the  little  ones  to  him,  kiss  the  tears 
from  the  eyes  of  those  who  mourn,  and  send 
them  back  to  life's  duties,  while  lie  cares  for 
the  jewels  in  that  Heaven  we  all  hope  for. 

Only  a  little  coffin !  Who  ever  thinks  of 
them  ?  Little  caskets  contain  the  most  precious 
treasures.  The  buds  are  promises  of  flowers; 
and  when  the  bud  is  taken  we  mourn,  for  we 
do  not  know  but  it  might  have  become  the  most 
beautiful  flower  of  all. 

God  pity  those  who  have,  with  tear-wet  eyes 
looked  upon  little  coffins.  The  hope  of  the 
father  and  the  mother,  the  one  who  has  so 


86  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

often  been  kissed  and  carressed,  is  no  more. 
The  hearts  of  those  who  brought  it  thus  far  are 
dark  with  grief.  And  down  into  the  little  grave 
buried  with  that  little  coffin,  go  a  thousand 
hopes,  dreams,  castles,  ideas,  and  links,  connect 
ing  us  with  and  drawing  ns  on  to  the  future. 
Indeed,  few  there  are  who  know  how  much  the 
little  coffins  hold!  The  agony  of  the  mother 
who  has  once  before  suffered;  the  fears  of  the 
father  who  held  her  head,  and  by  her  pillow 
watched,  with  kind  touch  and  gentle  kiss ;  the 
hours  of  quiet  talk  over  the  future  of  the  new 
guest  to  love's  table;  the  hopes,  fears,  watch- 
ings,  care  and  affection  God  gives  ns  for  the 
little  ones, —  all  are  packed  into  that  coffin,  till  it 
seems  as  if  lie  must  love  the  little  one  just  come 
to  Him  for  the  years  of  heart  and  hopes  dashed 
to  pieces,  which  come  like  prayers  of  mourners 
beseeching  His  eternal  care. 

Little  coffins. 

Little  caskets. 


Such  a  Little  Coffin!  87 

Little  treasures. 

Chrysalis  and  Butterfly.  Promise  and  Ke- 
warcl.  Buds  here,  flowers  there.  Little  graves 
here,  little  crowns  there.  The  little  coffins 
are  dear,  for  there  we  gave  to  rest  our  little 
and  our  loved  ones.  And  where  they  sleep 
are  little  hillocks,  which  also  mark  the  wounds 
on  our  hearts.  And  the  little  hillocks  will  last 
after  we  have  gone  to  the  Eternal  Land,  where 
only  can  our  wounds  be  healed! 

And  the  little  hillocks  are  everywhere,  —  city 
and  town,  cemetery  and  graveyard,  —  crowded 
together,  and  singly,  they  are  to  be  found. 
And  when  wre  see  them  in  the  quiet  cities  of 
the  dead,  we  feel  sorry  for  those  who  there 
hid  from  sight  the  little  coffins,  and  say,  V#y 
down  deep  in  our  heart,  God  bless  and  make 
happy  the  little  ones  there  at  rest,  and  all  who 
mourn  that  they  are  not  with  us,  who  so  loved 
them,  and  carried  to  them  presents,  and  love,  and 
kisses,  and  kind  words  every  Saturday  Night. 


IX. 
KIND  WORDS  FROM  WOMAN'S  LIPS. 

AIN  has  the  angel  folded  up  the 
book  of  seven  daily  chapters,  and 
stored  it  away  with  the  thousands  of 
volumes  waiting  God's  opening  thereof,  when 
He  YvTill  be  ready  to  examine  our  records 
after  our  final  Saturday  Night  lias  come  and 

we   live    but    in  memory.     All    the   week   we 
(88) 


Kind   Words  from    Woman's  Lips.       89 

have  been  working  and  thinking.  We  have 
watched  the  little  tin  pails  spoken  of  in  a  for 
mer  chapter,  go  and  come,  and  seen  many 
a  man  with  one  in  his  hand  turn  his  eyes 
to  look  at  our  office  as  he  passed  by,  and 
step  in  to  purchase  the  paper  wherein  we 
spoke  of  his  silent  morn,  noon,  and  night 
companion. 

And  to-night  we  relate  a  little  incident,  no  ft 
much  of  itself,  but  volumes  for  all.  The  man 
of  whom  we  write  will  pardon  us  for  this 
article,  for  telling  to  thousands  of  others  the 
simple  tear-wet  story  he  told  us  as  he  sat  in 
a  chair  by  us,  his  little  tin  pail  on  the  floor 
beside  him.  lie  was  a  great,  strong  man  — 
strong  enough  to  have  thrown  us  out  the 
winpow  upon  the  gas-lamp  below;  but  his 
frame  trembled,  and  his  lip  quivered  as  he 
spoke. 

"My  work  is  done  for  the  day.  I  want  to 
talk  with  you  as  a  friend,  and  I  thank  you  for 


00  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

giving  me  tins  opportunity.     My  name  is  

Adams.     I  work   in  a  foundry   on  Street. 

1  read  your  article   about  little   tin  pails,  and 
all  the  men  in  the  shop  heard  me  read  it  at 
noon.     It  was  a  good  chapter,  and  they  wanted 
me   to  thank    you    for  writing  it,   for    it  told 
just  what  we  felt.     We  are  working-men ;   our 
hands   are  hard    and    grimed,   but    our   hearts 
are  warmer  than  many  who  sneer  at  us.     The 
sledge,  the  file,  the  sand,  the  hot  iron  and  the 
cold,  leave   their  marks   on  us,   but  we    think, 
and  work,  and  think.     And  when  a  man  speaks 
for  us  we  love  him. 

"But  it  is  not  of  this  to-night.  You  have 
troubles  of  your  own — all  have.  But  I  wish 
to  tell  you  I  work  hard  and  try  to  save.  I 
love  my  wife.  Years  ago,  when  she  was 
younger  than  now,  I  loved  her;  and  I  have 
always  tried  to  make  her  happy.  ~\Ve  had  no 
home  then,  as  we  have  now.  I  worked  and 
earned  our  home ;  these  hands  and  these 


Kind  Words  from  Woman's  Lips.        91 

muscles   earned  it.     It  is  not  a  rich  home,  but 
it  is  ours,  and  sometimes  very   happy. 

"  Sometimes  when  I  go  home  I  am  very 
tired.  It  is  hard  work  to  labor  as  we  have  to. 
And  some  days  I  am  sick  and  tired,  and  my 
head  aches,  and  my  bones  ache,  and  I  do  not 
feel  strong.  But  I  work,  for  we  must  eat. 
Her  and  the  babes  must  eat  and  be  clad. 
And  I  go  home  tired.  And  sometimes 
she  is  glad  to  see  me,  and  sometimes  she  is 
cross  and  scolds.  She  says  I  do  not  love  her, 
when  I  do.  And  she  seems  not  to  care  for  me 
And  she  speaks  hot,  sharp,  bitter  words. 
They  would  not  hurt  if  others  said  them,  but 
when  they  come  from  her  lips,  I  feel  sick  and 
tired  of  life.  I  try  to  be  good  and  kind,  and 
mean  to  do  right.  All  the  way  from  the  shop, 
I  wonder  if  she  will  be  kind  or  cross  when  I 
reach  home.  Sometimes  she  is  real  good,  and 
her  eyes  look  so  loving,  and  her  hand  feels  so 
warm  and  full  of  life  as  she  places  it  in  mine! 


92  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Then  my  heart  grows  big,  and  full,  and 
brave,  and  I  could  die  for  her  or  go  back  to 
the  shop,  tired  as  I  am,  and  work  all  night 
for  her  and  for  them.  And  then  I  am  so  happy, 
and  our  home  is  so  happy ;  the  evening  is  so  short 
I  wonder  where  it  went  to!  And  we  lay  our 
heads  on  the  same  pillow,  and  sleep  close  to  each 
other,  loved  and  loving. 

"  But,  pshaw !  why  do  I  tell  you  this  ?    I  would 
not,  but  something  tells  me  you  know  it  all. 

"  And  sometimes  I  go  home,  and  she  is  not  so 
kind.  And  there  is  not  one  bit  of .  love-light  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  seems  so  cold !  If  I  am  sick 
and  tired,  I  could  almost  sink.  Of  course  she 
does  not  know  how  hard  I  toiled  all  day. 
The  hours  go  by  slowly  sometimes.  And 
when,  she  is  cross  I  am  cross.  "We  eat  our 
supper  in  silence,  and  I  go  out.  And  I  walk 
the  street,  looking  at  windows  and  envying 
those  who  are  happier  than  I.  And  I  go  -to 
some  place  where  drink  is  sold,  and  instead  of 


Kind  Words  from  Woman's  Lips.       93 

taking  a  social  glass  with  a  friend  and  going 
home  early,  stay  and  drink,  and  spend  money, 
and  grow  reckless,  and  don't  care,  and  stay 
out  till  midnight,  for  I  hate  to  go  home  when 
it  is  not  pleasant  there. 

"Don't  blame  us  who  drink  at  times.  We 
dont  want  to ;  but  sometimes  —  sometimes, 
you  know,  our  home  ones  do  not  give  us  kind 
words,  and  we  feel  heart-sick.  Sometimes  I 
stop  for  a  moment  to  take  a  glass  of  ale,  or 
beer,  or  something  waurn,  with,  a  friend.  We 

/  O  ' 

have  worked  hard  all  day,  and  think  we  need 
it,  whether  we  do  or  not.  And  we  talk  a  few 
minutes,  for  it  is  little  talk  we  do  in  the  shop. 
And  then  she  scolds,  and  gives  me  red-hot 
words,  and  they  burn  and  blister.  She  says 
I  do  not  love  her,  when  I  do.  And  she  scolds 
me  for  spending  a  dime  or  so,  and  acts  as  if  I 
were  the  slave  and  she  the  monarch,  and  it 
drives  me  sick  and  crazy,  and  I  don't  care 
what  I  do. 


94  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

"To-night  I  am  going  home.  I  shall  be  a 
little  late,  but  never  mind.  I  wanted  to  see 
you — our  friend— and  to  thank  you,  and  to 
ask  you  to  write  more  such  articles,  for  they 
make  us  better.  And  I'll  read  them  every 
Saturday  Night  while  I  live.  I  must  go  now. 
Good-night." 

God  bless  that  man! — that  worker.  He  told 
us  his  story,  simple  and  plain,  as  we  have 
given  it,  and  we  give  it  to-night  to  others 
knowing  that  many  a  good  man  has  been 
driven  to  ruin  by  the  one  who  might  have 
saved  him  by  using  kind  words. 

It  is  hard  to  labor  all  day.  When  night 
comes  the  mind  is  nervous;  hard  words  are 
like  molten  potash  to  the  weary  husband  and 
father,  who  has  been  annoyed  and  bothered 
all  day  long.  Good  wife,  we  would  see  you 
happy,  and  in  behalf  of  those  who  are  work 
ing  to  make  homes  and  to  care  for  you,  we 
ask  for  more  kind  words,  for  they  are  tlio 


Words  from  Woman's  Lips.       95 

sunshine  of  life,  which  will  make  home  cheer 
ful  and  happy,  be  it  never  so  humble  or  lowly. 
Try  them  for  a  week,  if  no  longer,  ami  com 
mence  with  this  Saturday  Night. 


X. 
STAGGERING  HOME. 

rOD  knows  we  are  sorry  for  him!  For 
five  minutes  we  have  watched  him  from 
our  window.  A  stout  young  man,  appa 
rently  thirty  years  of  age.  He  looks  like  a 
working-man.  We  should  say  a  man  of  family. 
See!  steady  there,  with  hand  against  the  iron 

fence  in  front  the  house,  step  by  step,  stagger- 
(90) 


Staggering  Home.  97 

ing  along.  Take  care  there  —  almost  down. 
Now  he  crawls  and  staggers  on. 

His  clothes  are  muddy,  as  if  somebody  had 
been  spattering  him.  His  face  looks  haggard 
and  distressed.  He  is  going  home.  Great 
God  !  what  a  visitor  to  some  earnest  woman 
and  little  children  waiting  his  coming,  and 
here  it  is  half-past  eleven  o'clock  at  night  ! 
Poor  fellow!  going  to  ruin  because  it  is  fash 
ionable.  Here  comes  a  kind  policeman. 

"  Halloa,  old  fellow !  what  ails  your  legs  ? " 

"'Tired— very  tired." 

"Where  you  live?" 

"No.  —  Second  Avenue." 

""Well,  come  along;  I'll  help  you  home." 

"And  you  wont  take  me  in?" 

To  take  in  means  to  take  to  the  police  sta 
tion. 

"No,  if  you  come  along  quietly.  This  is  no 
place  for  a  drunken  man." 

"All  — right —  I'm  yer  friend?" 


98  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Arm  in  arm  they  went  away.  We  do  not 
know  who  that  poor  fellow  is,  whose  home  is 
hardly  reached;  but  ho  is  somebody.  He  had 
a  mother,  and  how  her  heart  would  have 
mourned  to  have  seen  him  thus!  Perhaps  it 
is  4o  his  mother's  house  he  is  going.  Perhaps 
to  his  own  home,  if  a  drunkard's  place  of  liv 
ing  can  be  called  a  home.  If  to  a  wife  and 
children  that  policeman  is  leading  him,  God 
pity  them.  Doubtless  he  has  worked  all  the 
week.  Most  likely  some  good  fellow,  who  is 
kind,  and  gentle,  and  loving,  when  sober.  But 
now,  what  is  he?  A  poor,  weak,  helpless  man, 
unable  to  care  for  himself.  A  sorrow  and 
shame  to  his  loved  ones,  a  disgrace  to  himself. 

"We  do  not  know  how  much  money  it  cost 
him  to  win  this  prize.  But  it  cost  something. 
Perhaps  a  dollar.  Perhaps  less.  Better  have 
thrown  the  money  away  and  kept  his  manhood. 

Better  have  given  his  dimes  to  the  little 
children.  Better  have  bought  a  little 


Staggering  Home.  99 

picture  or  picture-book  for  his  children ;  a 
picture  for  his  walls;  a  better  hat  than  the 
one  he  wore ;  a  pair  of  shoes  or  stockings 
for  the  little  ones,  who  love  him  for  all  he 
goes  down  into  such  helplessness  to  their  neg 
lect;  or  a  present  for  the  wife  who  so  often 
has  cared  for  him  in  these  plights,  and  who 
to-night  will  weep  and  mourn,  and  feel  so 
discouraged,  as  she  washes  and  combs  and  cares 
for  the  one  she  cannot  help  loving,  for  all 
his  foolish  weakness. 

God  only  knows  what  a  true  wife  and 
mother  suffers  when  her  husband  and  the 
father  of  her  babes  has  no  honest  pride  and 
love  of  family  to  make  him  care  for  his  home 
ones.  And  God  pity  the  poor  man  who  has 
given  his  heart  in  exchange  for  that  eating, 
craving,  burning  thirst  for  stimulants,  know 
ing  there  is  no  safety  under  their  influence. 
Every  week  he  lowers  himself  deeper  into  the 
terrible  well.  He  has  friends,  so-called,  while 


100  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

his  money  lasts.  But  one  by  one  his  dollars 
go.  Little  by  little  his  hope  fades  out.  His 
pluck  and  ambition  become  dull  and  blunted. 
He  cares  for  nobody.  Ilis  employer  does  not 
want  an  unsteady  man,  and  pretty  soon  he  has 
lost  his  place.  A  good  workman,  but  too  un 
steady.  The  downward  road  is  easier  to  travel. 
Blueness,  or  depression  of  spirits,  follow ;  the 
home  he  has  not  made  beautiful  loses  its  at 
tractions  ;  the  wife  is  found  often  in  tears,  while 
sio-hs  from  a  grief -laden  heart  tell  that  she 
lingers  in  the  shadow  of  better  days  to  dread 
the  terrible  future  with  a  drunken  husband. 

Once  he  was  kind,  and  good,  and  manly. 
His  eye  never  was  clouded  or  dazed  in  its  look. 
His  lips  were  not  dry  and  parched.  Ilis  tongue 
was  not  thick.  His  breath  was  not  so  poison- 
laden  and  offensive.  He  lived  other  than  in 
his  throat. 

If  he  would  only  listen  to  us.  Once  we  were 
very,  very  poor,  even  penniless.  But  we  worked 


Staggering  jfTome.  101 

and  saved.  We  saw  what  money  would  and 
could  do ;  that  it  bought  pretty  things  for 
places  of  dissipation  and  made  them  attractive. 
And  we  saw  that  men  loved  to  be  in  attractive 
places.  And  for  fear  we  would  be  sick  and 
without  money  we  worked.  And  to  make  our 

home  attractive  we  saved  our  -earnings,  till  at 

t 
last  we  made  a   sanctum   more   beautiful   than 

any  room  we  ever  saw,  and  people  asked  how 
we  did  it. 

By  saving  our  earnings  and  putting  the 
money  we  might  have  spent  in  dissipation,  in 
pictures,  paintings,  carpets,  desks,  sofas,  tables, 
curtains,  and  little  works  of  art.  Thus  we  gave 
employment  to  working-men.  "We  purchased 
the  result  of  others'  labor  with  the  result  of 
our  own.  We  encouraged  mechanics  and  art- 
workers,  made  our  home  attractive.  Every  dol 
lar  thus  invested  helped  make  a  wall  between 
us  and  dissipation. 

Once  in  Milwaukee,  at  a  ball,  a  nice  young 


102  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

man  refused  to  dance  in  tlie  set  we  were  in  be 
cause  we  were  poor.  He  was  rich,  or  liis  father 
was.  He  thought  nothing  of  expending  five, 
ten,  twenty,  or  even  fifty  dollars  a  night,  treat 
ing  his  companions.  lie  was  a  good  fellow, 
lie  was  popular  with  girls  and  boys.  Years 
passed.  One  day  a  bloated-faced  man  called  at 
our  Western  office. 

"Don't  you  know  me?" 

"  No ;    and  yet  we  have-  met  somewhere !  " 

"Quite  right;  I  knew  you  in  Milwaukee. 
Times  have  changed  since  then.  You  have 
grown  rich;  I  am  poor,  and  no  one  cares  for 
me  now.  I  want  some  work;  I  have  no  money, 
—  have  eaten  nothing  to-day." 

"  You  are .  but  how  changed  ! " 

*  o 

"Yes,  I  am  he.  And  you  will  help  me, 
wont  you?" 

"Have  you  a  trade?" 

"  No ;   I  never  learned  one." 


Staggering  Home.  103 

"No  one  cares  for  you  now;  do  you  care 
for  yourself?" 

"  Don't  ask  me ! " 

"  Where  are  your  old  friends, —  the  boys  you 
were  so  popular  with?" 

"Oh,  they  have  gone  to  the  devil,  or  those 
who  have  not,  have  gone  back  on  me  —  quit 
when  I  had  no  more  money.  But  tell  me  how 
you  got  this  fine  office.  "When  I  knew  you  a 
few  years  ago,  you  were  poor." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  What  you  invested  in 
dissipation  I  invested  in  books,  pictures,  and 
machinery.  While  you  squandered,  I  saved. 
While  you  didn't  care,  I  did.  When  I  cared 
for  myself,  others  cared  for  me." 

"  Well,  I  see  it ;  but  can  you  give  me  work  ? " 

"No,  you  are  not  in  condition  to  work.  To 
give  you  a  place  I  must  discharge  a  good  man, 
who  is  sober  and  trying  to  get  along.  This  I 
cannot  do." 

Pardon  this  diversion,  but  we  ran  into  think- 


104  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

ing  of  old  times,  and  have  been  counting  up 
our  boyish  friends,  to  know  how  many  of  them 
have  succeeded,  and  the  result  makes  us  sad. 

We  do  wish  the  working-men  would  be  more 
careful  of  their  earnings.  They  would  be  so 
much  happier,  have  better  homes,  be  better  loved, 
and  we  should  not  have  had  the  chapter  to  have 
written  we  have  this  Saturday  Night. 


XI. 

WORTH  OF  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

another  week ! 

How  short  it  has  been  !  seven  days  — • 
seven  chapters  of  light  and  happiness, 
of  joys  and  sorrows,  of  hopes  and  fears,  of 
trials  and  conquests,  of  births  and  marriages, 
of  sickness  and  of  health.  But  a  little  thing  is  a 
week  ;  but  it  is  a  life  to  some,  in  the  results  it 


doth  bring. 


(105) 


106  *0ur  Saturday  Nights. 

To-night  we  were  made  to  feel  sad,  yet  happy. 
On  the  way  home  we  passed  a  woman  in  calico, 
leading  by  the  arm  a  weak,  tottering,  trembling 
old  man.  His  step  was  hardly  a  step  ;  he  could 
hardly  lift  his  feet  from  the  pavement ;  his  face 
was  wrinkled  with  the  lines  of  ninty-one  winters, 
while  his  scattered  hairs  were  silky  and  white  as 
the  purest  snow. 

And  the  woman  was  past  the  fifty.  Her  face 
was  kind  ;  her  eyes  told  volumes.  The  crowd 
on  the  Bowery  turned  aside  as  *t  hurried  by  to 
let  the  old  man  toddle  on. 

"  Good  evening,  good  woman  ;  can  we  help 
you?" 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you !  J:  And  she  looked  so 
kindly  at  us.  ""We  are  almost  home  —  a  few 
steps  farther;  and  you  are  in  a  hurry, — going 
home  too,  perhaps." 

Almost  Home  ! 

Yes,  the  old  man,  who  little  heeded  the  crowd, 
and  who  looked  with  mazed  and  puzzled  gaze  on 


Worth  of  Woman's  Love.  107 

the  busy  scene,  was  almost  home !  A  few  more 
Saturday  Nights  and  he  will  be  there  with  Him, 
and  then  he  can  walk,  and  run  without  stumbling 
or  other  support  than  His. 

And  we  passed  on,  to  think,  and  think.  And 
we  thought  of  woman's  love,  and  the  worth  of  it. 
How  she  cared  for  him — we  should  think  her 
father.  Perhaps  he  was  cross  and  petulant  years 
ago,  if  not  now ;  yet  she  was  kind  to  him,  and 
with  care  steadied  his  steps  lest  he  fall  and  the 
busy  crowd  trample  him  under  feet.  And  we 
thought  of  thousands  and  thousands  of  good 
women  in  different  places,  who  love,  are  good, 
and  true,  and  pure,  and  kind ;  who  deserve 
happiness  here  and  Heaven  hereafter. 

All  over  the  land  we  saw  them  as  we  walked 
home.  The  entire  line  of  clouds  seemed  to  be 
rolled  back  by  some  great  hand  as  somebody  said, 
"  Look  at  them  everywhere." 

And  we  did  look  into  thousands  of  homes,  — by 
the  farmer's  fire,  and  in  the  woodman's  cabin ; 


108  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

by  the  sick  bed  and  kneeling  with  grief-laden 
hearts  and  tear-wet  faces,  beside  corpses  and 
coffins.  "We  saw  them  in  calico  and  homespun 
by  thousands,  and  they  all  told  of  woman's  worth, 
love,  and  devotion. 

Little  do  men  know  of  woman's  sorrows,  heart 
aches,  hungerings  for  love,  temptations,  and  re- 
sistings.  Men  go  and  come.  They  are  busy. 
Avenues  of  labor  and  amusement  are  opened  to 
them,  for  they  have  power  to  open  to  suit  them 
selves.  They  plunge  into  business,  engage  in  en 
terprises,  hunt,  fish,  sport,  idle,  dissipate,  go  and 
come,  mixing,  talking,  eager  to  be  interested. 
When  tired,  they  rest;  but  woman's  work  is 
never  done,  and  she  must  labor  on,  a  prisoner 
within  close  walls,  like  a  caged  bird  seeing  the 
world  but  not  mixing  therewith,  lest  she  be  lost. 

We  know  of  a  home  where  a  woman  works 
cheerfully,  for  lie  she  loves  works  like  us.  She 
wears  calico,  and  knows  nothing  of  opera.  Her 
heart  is  in  her  home,  her  loved  ones  ;  she  is 


Worth  of  Womarts  Love.  109 

happy,  for  they  all  live  for  her  as  she  does  for 
them.  And  oh,  the  wondrous  depth  of  her  love  ! 
She  is  by  the  bedside,  the  table,  the  chair,  every 
where.  She  is  monarch  of  home  —  queen  of 
hearts ;  and  willing  tributes  do  her  subjects  pay. 

Her  hand  stills  pain  ;  her  lips  greet  with  such 
pure,  earnest,  loving  kisses  !  Her  words  are  ever 
so  kind  and  gentle  while  her  life  is  not  lost  in 
selfishness.  She  is  not  a  vain  beauty,  cold  as 
marble,  indifferent  to  others,  caring  only  for 
herself,  for  position  and  the  outward  adornment 
of  her-  person,  tyrannizing  over  hearts  compelled 
by  the  ukase  of  society  to  pay  vows  where  none 
are  due.  But  she  is  a  good  woman  —  a  loving 
woman.  A  loving,  affectionate,  gentle,  caressing 
woman  a  man  always  loves,  and  is  willing  to  care 
for,  protect  and  defend. 

We  love  a  good,  warm-hearted  woman.  Not 
one  of  these  simple  beauties  who  are  gay,  paint 
ed,  padded,  befrixed  and  befrizzled  adornings  of 
fashion,  without  heart  or  true  worth.  Such  are 


110  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

very  nice  to  look  upon,  good  to  flirt  with,  nice 
to  take  to  the  opera,  the  races,  the  theatre,  or  to 
skirmish  with  when  the  coast  is  clear  and  willin^ 

o 

ones  seek  for  adventure,  but  they  don't  wear  for 
keeps  like  the  good,  plain,  sensible  women  who 
have  hearts  and  whose  worth  is  more  than  pen  or 
tongue  can  tell. 

Women  would  be  better  and  happier  if 
men  loved  them  better  and  were  more  true 
to  them.  If  men  would  strive  as  much  to 
make  home  happy  as  they  do  to  seek  happi 
ness  elsewhere,  the  world  would  be  better. 

Hours  do  come  whe-n  men  admit  the  power 
the  worth  of  woman.  Not  in  sunshine  so 
much  as  in  shade  and  storm.  When  engrossed 
with  business  and  rolling  on  the  sea  of  such 

O 

cess,  we  too  often  ^forget  the  ones  without 
whom  life  would  be  a  blank,  and  only  fly  to 
the  havens  and  shelters,  the  love  and  gentle 
caresses  of  woman,  when  the  waves  are  high 
and  to  remain  abroad  is  to  perish. 


Worth  of  Woman's  Love.  Ill 

Then  comes  the  hour  when  all  admit  the 
power  of  the  weak.-  It  is  the  care  of  woman 
which  makes  millions  of  homes  beautiful,  and 
makes  love's  palaces  of  laborers'  cabins  and 
farmers'  cottages.  It  is  the  love  we  have  for 
woman,  —  the  love  they  have  for  us  as  men,  — 
that  drives  us  ahead  to  conquests  and  victories. 
The  words  kindly  spoken,  the  smile  of  those 
we  love,  the  commendation  of  those  we  res 
pect  of  women,  make  men  of  all  who  are  not 
debased,  and  draw  our  hearts  to  them  with 
irresistible  power.  And  as  we  see  them  day 
after  day  patiently,  earnestly  toiling  to  help 
others  walk;  as  we  see  them  leading  the  weak, 
aiding  the  unfortunate,  and  by  the  wondrous 
power  of  their  God-given  love,  and  the  magic 
of  their  smiles,  caresses,  and  prayers,  we  wonder 
that  all  men  do  not  pay  more  tribute  to  the 
worth  of  woman's  love. 

Theirs  is  not  the  forum  nor  the  hustings. 
We  do  not  love  those  who  strive  for  mascu- 


112  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Unity.  But  the  good  women,  —  the  plain 
earnest,  home  women  of  the  land,  regardless 
of  church  or  sentiment  political,  we  would 
see  all  men  more  attentive  and  kind  to,  for 
our  happiness  ends  in  their  love,  as  the  week 
ends  in  Saturday  Night. 


XII. 

.FUNEKAL  NEXT  DOOR. 

j       N  the  great  city  made  by  man ! 
"Funeral  next  door!" 
"Who?" 
"Don't  know!" 

The  hearse  stands  with  rear  end  to  the 
house.  Four  horses,  with  nodding  plumes,  wait 
the  coining  of  the  corpse  and  the  order  of 


114  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

the  .undertaker  to  go  ahead.  Carriages  lino 
the  trottoir,  or  sidewalk,  waiting  to  take  up 
the  mourners  and  the  expectants.  Down  the 
steps  they  come,  pall-bearers  with  the  coffin. 
Silver  handles,  silver  screw-heads,  silver  plate, 
hot-house  flowers,  and  embroidered  pall-cloth 
folded  in  hand.  Now  gently  —  all  right ! 
Steadily  the  little  rollers  on  the  floor  of  the 
hearse  revolve,  two  by  two  the  corpse-bearers 
step  back  —  all  in  —  close  the  door  —  step  up 
a  little,  driver  —  mourners'  carriages  fall  in 
—  all  right  ahead.  And  away  to  the  silent 
city  goes  the  man  who  has  just  traded  houses, 
giving  the  work  of  a  lifetime  as  boot-money! 
Expression  inelegant,  but  truth  undeniable. 

"Not  Jcnow  who  he  was?" 

Of  course  not.  He  lived  there;  we  live 
here.  This  is  the  city  where  each  person 
minds  his  own  business,  and  meddles  not  with 
the  affairs  of  another.  This  is  city  style. 
The  wall  which  divided  us  mi^ht  have  been 


Funeral  Next  Door.  115 

an  hundred  leagues  thick,  but  no  further 
through  than  it  was,  so  far  as  they  and  us 
are  concerned.  He  was  some  man,  or  she  was 
some  woman,  or  it  was  some  child.  He  lived 
up-towii  —  down  town  —  in  a  store,  an  office, 
a  bank  —  somewhere.  lie  might  have  been 
an  ex-mayor,  a  millionaire,  a  gambler,  preacher, 
editor,  politician,  statesman,  speculator,  knave 
or  fool.  We  knew  him  not.  He  knew  not  us. 
And  yet  we  have  known  him — he  us.  He 
might  have  been  an  enemy;  perhaps  a  friend. 
He  came  at  one  hour,  we  at  another.  He 
arose  early,  we  late.  lie  rode  or  walked  one 
way,  we  another. 

"  Did  he  have  a  family  ? "  How  do  we  know  ? 
Sombody  lived  there,  next  door,  but  we  never 
knew  nor  cared.  E~or  they  for  us.  "Not  long 
since  there  was  a  wedding  party  there.  It 
might  have  been  him  or  her  who  was  of  the 
party  most  interested.  We  do  not  know;  were 
not  invited.  The  other  night  there  was  dancing 


116  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

next  door.  We  heard  the  music  and  the  dancers 
as  we  turned  the  night  key  of  our  own  door. 
And  we,  too,  had  a  party,  but  the  next  door  was 
not  concerned. 

The  occupant  of  the  next  house  may  have 
been  the  best  or  the  worst  man  in  the  world; 
he  may  have  been  rich  or  poor,  happy  or 
miserable,  old  or  young,  married  or  single, 
healthy  or  sickly;  we  know  not.  Perhaps  he 
was  poisoned.  Maybe  he  killed  himself.  lie 
may  have  died  drunk;  we  hope,  sober.  lie 
may  leave  a  wife  and  little  ones  to  weep. 
Mayhap,  a  wife  to  rejoice  that  the  physician 
or  the  undertaker  saved  her  feeing  a  lawyer 
for  a  divorce!  Perhaps  he  was  an  old  miser, 
whose  heirs  rejoice  at  his  death.  And  it  may 
be,  the  coffin  contained  one  who  w^as  a  wife, 
a  mother,  a  sister.  They  live,  or  lived,  next 
door  to  us,  as  we  to  them.  They  knew  people 
—  so  do  we.  People  know  them,  are  friends 
to  them.  So  we  have  friends  —  and  in  a 


Funeral  Next  Door.  117 

dozen    days,    or    a    dozen    years,    might    have 
known  them   and   they   us. 

The  procession  has  moved  out  of  sight. 
The  undertaker's  foreman  is  moving  off  the 
chairs  brought  by  him  for  the  mourners  and 
friends  who  had  been  called  together,  for  he 
or  she  had  more  friends  than  chairs  in  the 
house.  More  friends  than  chairs !  Let  us 
count  the  chairs  in  our  room.  Sixteen  and 
two  sofas.  Sixteen  friends  and  two  sofas. 
Who  of  us  has  sixteen  friends,  —  we  mean 
friends  who  have  the  pluck  to  stand  by  us, 
rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cold,  rich  or  poor,  in 
luck  or  out?  We  have  one  friend — yes,  thou 
sands!  And  God  bless  them,  as  we  would, 
if  in  our  power. 

But  not  of  them,  but  of  him  or  her  who  has 
gone-  They  live  near,  yet  wre  knew  them  not. 
So  near  and  yet  so  far !  And  so  it  is  in  the  city. 
They  live  each  side  of  us  —  overhead,  under 
neath.  Yet  we  know  them  not.  They  may  be 


118  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Christians,  Jews,  infidels,  deists,  atheists,  ran 
ters,  or,  worse  than  all,  Puritans;  they  may 
be  good,  bad,  or  indifferent — we  know  them 
not.  The  next  door  may  be  where  lives  a 
priest,  a  pirate,  a  printer,  a  physician.  Perhaps 
it  is  a  good  house — perhaps  a  bad  one.  Well, 
what  of  it?  They  mind  their  buisness.  We 
mind  ours,  and  never  quarrel.  Yet,  for  all  this, 
we  at  times  wonder  who  lives  next  door;  how 
he  lives,  for  whom,  and  why.  And  we  wonder 
were  they  really  mourners  or  heart  swindlers 
who  attended  the  funeral  next  door  ? 

If  we  could  only  look  in  there  sometimes! 
But  then  they  might  look  in  upon  us !  How 
would  we  like  that?  And  so  we  live  in  the 
city,  known  and  yet  not  known,  knowing 
and  not  knowing,  friends  and  not  friends; 
each  intent  upon  his  or  her  own  business,  not 
caring  whether  there  be  pajrties  for  joy  or  for 
grief,  parties  for  business  or  pleasure,  parties 
for  revelling  or  mourning,  so  near  us.  But 


Funeral  Next  Door.  119 

this  we  do  know:  there  was  a  funeral  next 
door  to  us,  and  some  of  -these  days  we,  too, 
shall  be  called  home,  and  they  who  so  near  yet 
not  so  near,  will,  as  we  have  done,  look  out 
the  window  to  notice  there  is  a  funeral  next 
door,  and  to  mention  it  perhaps,  if  not  during 
the  week,  when  shall  come  Saturday  Night. 


XIII. 
"  ONLY  Two  LABORERS  KILLED  !  " 


FEW  lines  told  the  story. 


"The  passengers  escaped  unhurt  —  only  two 
laborers  killed." 

So  the  dispatch  read  in  the  paper  this  morning 
announcing  a  collision  on  the  Central  Railroad. 

O 

Only  two  laborers !     But  wait  a  moment.     Who 
(120 


Only  Two  Laborers  Killed.  121 

were  these  laborers  ?  The  trains  met ;  there  was 
a  crash ;  the  passengers  escaped  unhurt,  and  the 
only  ones  sent  or  called  home  were  two  laborers. 
The  train  passed  on.  Passengers  talked  and 
chatted.  They  read  books  and  papers,  played 
cards,  or  slept.  Loved  ones  behind  them  or  be 
fore  them,  waiting  their  returning  or  coming. 

Only  two  laborers  killed !  Who  were  they  ? 
What  were  they  ?  Where  were  they  ?  No  names 
given — no  thought.  Had  one  of  Yanderbilt's 
trotting  horses  died  or  been  killed,  the  telegraph 
and  the  papers  would  have  told  full  particulars ; 
for  is  not  the  horse  of  a  rich  man  of  more  account 
than  the  life  of  a  laborer?  A  simple-minded, 
honest,  toiling  laborer  ? 

Who  was  he  ? 

We  will  tell  you.  He  was  a  poor  working-man. 
Day  after  day  he  toiled,  early  and  late.  Men 
rode  over  the  railroad  he  helped  build,  and 
praised  the  enterprise  of  its  managers,  but  never 
stopped  to  think  of  him  who  gave  his  health, 


122  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

muscle,  and  very  life  to  the  work.  lie  was 
passed  by  as  of  less  account  than  the  little  smile 
of  a  pretty  girl  or  bewitching  woman. 

But  he  was  a  man.  Years  ago  he  was  an  in 
fant,  and  rested,  as  do  the  children  of  others,  in 
loving  arms.  There  was  joy  at  his  coining  years 
ago.  There  were  prayers  of  a  loving  mother  for 
his  health,  happiness,  and  escape  from  tempta 
tion.  But  where  the  mother  is  now  we  cannot 
tell ;  for  he  was  but  a  laborer,  and  in  the  eyes 
of  the  rich  they  are  not  worth  mentioning, 
except  as  cooks,  washers,  ironers,  menders,  or 
old  women.  Are  they  not  the  most  blessed  who 
die  young  ? 

Yes,  she  loved  him,  and  wept  when  he  went 
into  the  world.  And  her  prayers  followed  him 
to  protect,  and  he  became  a  laborer  rather  than 
a  loafer  or  a  criminal,  forgetting  God  and 
mother  alike.  And  he  toiled  ;  and  in.  time  he 
loved  just  as  we  love.  His  hands  were  hard,  but 
do  you  not  know  his  heart  was  soft,  and  kind, 


Only  Two  Laborers  Killed.  123 

and  mellow  ?  And  by  the  labor  of  his  hands  he 
earned  a  little  home,  where  to  his  heart  he  held 
the  dear  ones  who  wait  in  vain  his  coming. 

He  was  a  laborer — he  is  now  at  rest,  for  his 
work  is  done.  Somebody  mourns.  The  heart  of 
somebody  will  be  made  very  sad,  for  this  is  the 
first  Saturday  Night  he  has  not  come  with  his 
honest  heart  to  love  the  dear  ones  of  his  little 
home.  He  toiled  for  others :  such  is  the  labor 
er's  lot.  But  when  comes  the  resting-hour,  lov 
ing  eyes  watched  his  coming,  listening  ears  wait 
ed  so  eagerly  for  the  familiar  step,  loving  lips 
were  put  up  to  greet  him,  a  tired  yet  loving 
breast  was  pressed  against  his  own ;  a  heart  all, 
all  his,  felt  enraptured  to  know  the  laborer  had 
returned. 

Somebody  loved  him  and  them.  All  the  week 
has  the  home  one  worked  and  waited  for  him 
and  the  coming  of  Saturday  Night.  Many  the 
plans  for  the  morrow  and  coming  week.  Many 
the  little  stories  of  incident  to  be  told  as  head 


124  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

and  head  on  pillow  rested,  the  heart  beating  in 
love's  unison  the  while. 

Laborers  love.  And  they  have  homes  dear  to 
them.  And  the  eyes  that  look  for  their  coming, 
the  heart  that  feels  their  absence,  kisses  that 
greet  them,  are  sweet  as  the  dew  of  richer  love. 
And  when  he  does  not  come  now,  oh  !  how 
terribly  anxious  will  be  the  waiting  ones.  He 
comes  not.  That  is  his  step — no !  Ah,  here  he 
comes  —  no,  it  is  some  one  else  !  And  you  may 
wait,  and  wait;  he  was  only  a  laborer,  and  it  is 
not  worth  wrhile  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  tell  his  family ! 
Perhaps  it  will  be  best  to  bury  him  and  say 
nothing,  for  he  was  only  a  laborer ! 

But  there  are  breaking  hearts  in  his  home,  as 
in  others.  The  dream  of  life  is  broken.  Thev 
hopes  of  years,  the  joys  of  a  lifetime,  the  dread 
ful  and  lonely  future,  the  weight  of  a  bitter- 
struck  heart,  now  fill  the  place  where  was  the 
laborer,  whose  name  is  not  worth  the  space  it 
would  take  in  a  daily  paper!  And  you  may 


Only  Two  Laborers  Killed.  125 

shove  back  his  chair  from  the  table,  return  his 
plate  to  the  pantry,  pour  out  the  full  of  his  cup, 
leave  his  pillow  from  the  bed,  hang  up,  fold,  or 
give  away  the  garments  he  wore,  search  his 
pockets,  and  read  the  letters  and  papers  he  left  at 
his  little  home — wander,  oh  so  sad  and  lonely 
about  the  rooms,  for  he  comes  no  more.  That 
book  he  liked  to  read ;  that  picture  he  looked  at ; 
the  little  presents  his  love-filled  heart  prompted 
giving  to  you,  the  keepsakes  moss-covered  with 
tender  memories,  he  will  never  look  at  or  talk 
over  with  you  as  you  sit  side  by  side;  for  his 
work  is  finished,  he  is  at  rest,  and  you  wrho 
mourn  are  the  ones  we  pity,  and  God  knows  how 
earnestly. 

Perhaps  they  will  bring  him  home.  In  a 
rough  box  ;  on  a  coarse  board,  with  a  few  blood 
stained  clothes  thrown  over  him ;  hair  tossing 
hither  and  yon,  eyes  aglare  and  aglaze.  May 
be  they  will  not  care  to  bother  with  a  dead  la 
borer,  for  he  can  be  of  no  more  use  to  the  rich, 


126  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

and  is  to  be  hated  because  he  left  loved  ones  for 
the  living  to  look  after ! 

But  they  will  bring  him,  and  go  to  their 
suppers — you  to  your  mourning !  Then  you  can 
weep  and  pray.  You  may  kneel  by  him,  as  we 
knelt  for  and  to  the  loved  and  lost,  till  it  seems 
as  if  the  heart  must  and  would  break  with  agony. 
And  you  may  look  at  his  unspeaking  face ;  lay 
your  hands  on  that  forehead ;  press  yolir  warm 
lips  to  his  cold  ones,  and  ask  God  to  take  you  also  : 
this  you  can  do,  if  he  was  but  a  laborer ! 

Thank  God  the  rich,  who  hold  our  notes  as 
bonds  which  we  must  pay,  cannot  keep  us  from 
loving  each  other,  nor  from  paying  tribute  to 
trusting  hearts.  ISTor  can  they  keep  the  ones  who 
labor  from  loving  each  other  truly,  if  their 
hands  be  hard,  homes  poor,  and  raiment  scant. 
And  if  the  rich  do  not  care  for  us,  we  who  are 
workingmen  and  laborers  can  care  for  each  other, 
and  live  more  for  the  dear  ones  who  will  mourn 
for  us  when  we,  too,  are  called  to  that  rest  which 


Only  Two  Laborers  Killed.  127 

awaits  us,  not  only  here,  where  those  who  are  but 
laborers  are  unnamed  and  unhonored,  but  in  that 
better  land  where  the  rich  are  not  our  masters, 
and  where  there  is  no  Saturday  Niglit. 


XIV. 

SINKING  TO  REST. 


week  lias  been  called  in. 
Another  seven-day  net  of  Providence's 
has  been  reeled  upon  the  invisible,  and 
its  wondrous  haul  of  good  deeds  and  bad  pass 
in  review  before  the  Power  of  powers,  the 
Great  Father  of  „  all.  A  few  more  Saturday 

Nights  for  us  —  perhaps  no  more  for  many  who 
(138) 


Sinking  to  Rest.  129 

will  read  this  article ;  it  may  be  no  more  for 
the  weary,  hard,  and  tired  brain  but  for  which 
this  little  summing  up  would  not  be  made. 

It  is  good  to  rest,  and  we  are  glad  to  have 
one  night  of  the  week  for  review  —  one  night 
in  which  to  look  back  at  the  hollowness  of  life 
—  one  little  season  in  which  we  can  look  at 
the  beautiful  of  it ;  for  there  is  beauty  in  it, 
though  the  terrible  to-morrow,  which  promises 
more  than  it  brings,  sadly  hides  the  perfection 
of  days,  life,  and  events. 

Since  last  we  sat  by  the  desk  to  write  thus 
outside  of  politics  or  business,  there  have  been 
many  changes.  Many  a  heart  has  been  wid 
owed,  and  many  a  sad  pillow  in  the  final 
earthly  home  marks  where  sleep  the  missed 
ones.  Do  you  know  there,  is  something  very 
strange  about  this  life  and  death?  We  do 
not  see  why  people  so  desire  to  live.  From 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  it  is  but  toil,  labor, 
sorrow,  disappointment,  and  vexation.  Were  it 


130  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

not  that  we  look  for  to-morrow  to  bring  us 
happiness,  or  next  week  or  next  year  to  bring 
us  comfort,  there  would  be  but  dark  clouds 
over  all  of  us.  The  days,  the  years,  are  but 
the  seconds  and  moments  of  God !  That  of 
time  we  prize  so  highly  is  of  no  moment  to 
Him,  and  yet  how  we  hang  on  the  great  pen 
dulum,  with  its  fifty-two  figures  thereon,  each 
like  this  of  which  we  write  ! 

Death  is  not  dreadful.  It  is  but  the  sleep 
ing  here  to  waken  there !  It  is  but  sinking 
to  rest  in  oar  office,  when  wearied  with  the 
labors  of  the  day,  and  waking  at  home,  where 
about  us  will  stand,  in  the  sunshine  of  God's 
wondrous  love,  the  dear  ones  gone  before  to 
prepare  the  parlor  of  Eternity  for  our  use 
and  our  resting,  forever!  And  who  would 
fear  to  thus  sleep — to  lay  by  the  pen,  to  shove 
back  from  the  desk,  and  say,  "  Good-by,  weary 
ing  labors;  we  part  forever;  "  to  recline  the 
head  on  back  of  cushioned  chair,  to  smile  as 


Sinking  to  Rest.  131 

our  eyes  see  the  loved  ones  waiting,  and  to 
know  that  instead  of  walking  we  are  wafted 
silently  and  on  wings  of  love,  lest  we  waken 
before  the  glad  surprise! 

Working-man  and  brother !  we  care  not 
what  your  language,  or  how  much  you  differ 
from  us  in  opinion,  to  you  we  talk  to-night. 
Opinions  are  but  opinions.  We  may  be 
wrong,  you  may  be  wrong;  each  of  us  may  be 
wrong ;  for  none  but  God  is  right.  You  have  a 
right  to  your  ideas,  we  have  a  right  to  ours; 
for  they  are  all  born  of  a  higher  power,  to  be 
operated  on  by  acts,  events,  and  arguments. 
But  we  would  add  to  your  happiness  here. 
Another  will  care  for  you  in  the  Hereafter,  as 
He  will  care  for  all  of  us.  You  teach  us,  by 
your  daily  example,  many  things.  We  see 
you  nobly  striving,  and  would  help  you,  if 
such  thing  can  be. 

We  all  seek  happiness.  Let  us  see  how  it 
can  be  had.  You  are  tired.  Then  rest.  Go 


132  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

home  and  be  with  those  who  are  with  you 
and  of  you.  Throw  your  labor  and  dignity 
behind  you.  Open  your  heart.  Talk  of  the 
beauties  of  the  past  you  have  seen,  and  con 
gratulate  yourselves  that  so  much  misery  which 
has  befallen  others  has  escaped  you.  Ko 
matter  how  hard  your  lot,  some  one  has  a 
harder  one.  Think  if  there  are  not  near  you 
those  you  would  not,  on  any  account,  change 
places  with. 

If  you  love,  love  more.  If  you  hate,  hate 
less.  Life  is  too  short  to  spend  in  hating  any 
one.  "Why  war  against  a  mortal  who  is  going 
the  same  road  with  us  ?  Why  not  expand 
the  flower  of  life  and  happiness,  by  learning  to 
love,  by  teaching  those  who  are  near  and  dear 
the  beautiful  lesson?  Your  hands  may  be 
hard,  but  your  hearts  need  not  be!  Your 
forms  may  be  bent  or  ugly,  but  do  you  not 
know  that  the  most  beautiful  flowers  often 
grow  in  the  most  rugged,  unsheltered  places? 


Sinldng  to  Rest.  133 

The  palace  for  care,  the  cottage  for  love.  Not 
that  there  is  no  love  in  the  mansion;  but 
somehow,  if  we  are  not  very  careful,  business 
will  crowd  all  there  is  of  beauty  out  of  the 
heart.  This  is  why  God  has  given  us  Sab 
baths  and  Saturday  Nights,  that  we  may  leave 
business  in  the  office,  and  have  a  heart-clean 
ing. 

Forgive,  as  you  would  be  forgiven.  Love 
as  you  would  be  loved.  Do  as  you  would  be 
^done  by.  Suppose  you  were  a  weary  prisoner 
at  home,  and  think  how  welcome  would  be 
the  coming  of  her  you  love,  to  be  with  you 
one  night,  if  not  each  night,  and  go  by  the 
places  of  dissipation,  of  wickedness,  where 
people  would  not  so  congregate  if  they  did 
not  forget!  If  you  would  have  home  happy, 
try  to  make  it  so.  Light  the  lamp  of  life  and 
keep  it  filled  with  the  oil  of  love,  care,  affec 
tion,  tenderness,  and  caresses,  that  it  may  not 
go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  when  the  work  of  life 


134  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

is  ended.  Children  often  fear  to  go  to  sleep 
in  the  dark;  but  there  is  another  sleep,  and  a 
more  terrible  darkness!  Only  this,  and  nothing 
more! 

Suppose  we  fall  asleep  in  the  office  this 
Saturday  Night,  and,  neglecting  to  have  trim 
med  our  lamp,  awaken  to  find  but  darkness 
and  gloom  and  uncertainty?  We  may  find 
matches,  but  of  what  avail  if  there  be  no  oil? 
We  may  die  and  live  again ;  but  if  there  be  no 
lamps  of  love  to  lighten  our  future,  better  that 
we  lived,  even  in  sorrow. 

Home  can  be  happy  if  we  make  it  so.  Do 
not  expect  to  cull  all  the  flowers.  Do  not, 
simply  to  please  yourself !  We  repeat :  do 
not,  simply  to  please  yourself  ;  for  therein  lies 
the  shroud  of  happiness?  Give  as  is  given. 
Keep  back  the  bitter  words.  Others  may  be 
weary  and  bitter.  Words  unspoken  are 
never  remembered! 

Go  home  to-night.     If  you  would  be  happy, 


Sinking  to  Rest.  135 

go  home.  If  there  is  no  happiness  there,  take 
some  and  kindle  more.  Save  your  earnings. 
Beautify  your  resting-places.  Keep  your 
heart  warm  and  your  brain  steady.  Save 
rather  than  waste,  for  the  days  go  by  faster 
than  we  dream,  and  want  may  overtake  us, 
as  it  has  others  who  lost  the  week  in  the 
great  whirlpool  of  Saturday  Night. 


XV. 
STANDING  BEFORE  THE  MINISTER. 


jATUKDAY  Night,  and  they  have  long 
been    our  friends.     So  they    invited    ns. 
Merely  a  little  private  affair.       Him  and 
her,    and  five  invited    guests.     Twenty-four  to 
nineteen,  and  they  love  each  other. 

It  was  not  a  grand  wedding;   that  is,  there 

was  no  line  of  carriages,  diamond-glittered  sensa- 
(136) 


Standing  'before  the  Minister.          137 

lion-seekers  called  friends.  No  army  of  waiters, 
bridesmaids,  musicians,  ushers;  no  saloon  and 
lunch-room  in  the  back  parlor;  no  grand 
splurge  as  if  no  one  had  married  before! 

But  there  were,  it  seemed  to  us,  angels  in 
the  air,  as,  hand  in  hand,  they  stood  before  the 
minister,  with  eyes  looking  down  as  if  to  see  the 
heart,  they  said  "  Yes,"  and  with  beautiful  faith 
in  the  future  began  the  wondrous  voyage  on  that 
ocean  thick  with  wrecked  hopes  and  life's 
rinsings ! 

They  were  lovers. 

They  are  man  and  wife.  » 

They  were' and  are  our  friends. 

They  begin  life  as  we  did  years  ago,  homeless 
and  houseless,  but  blessed  with,  health,  pluck, 
and  a  will  to  work.  When  the  ceremony  of 
marriage  was  over,  we  shook  each  by  the  hand, 
and  wished  them  well.  But  we  did  not  kiss 
the  bride.  "We  would  not  wish  every  spectator 
to  kiss  our  new  bride.  Custom  compels  brides 


138  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

to  submit  to  be  kissed  at  this  time,  by  every 
comer,  as  men  take  a  last  look  at  a  corpse. 
Confound  such  custom  !  The  bridegroom  stands 
to  see  his  wife  in  the  arms  or  hands  of  others 
—  then  takes  to  his  bosom  his  dream  of  purity, 
her  lips  pounded  and  flavored  with  various 
breaths,  liquors,  and  brands  of  tobacco.  Not  any 
for  us ! 

The  bride,  a  good,  plain,  honest,  dark-eyed, 
sensible  woman,  asked,  "  Will  you  tell  me  how 
to  always  be  as  happy  as  now  ? " 

"  Yes  :  always  be  so  ! " 

It  is  late  to-night.  "We  have  been  thinking 
how  to  help  our  young  friends.  The  greatest 
help  we  ever  had  was  from  an  earnest  friend, 
who  gave  us  good  advice ;  and  we  thanked 
him  for  it.  So  we,  to-night,  before  sleeping, 
answer  the  question  of  the  bride. 

You  are  young.  You  wish  to  be  happy. 
That  is  like  a  toy  passed  to  each  generation ! 


Standing  before  the  Minister.          139 

"We  all  wish  the  same.  There  is  no  particular 
secret  about  it.  If  you  want  a  wife,  you  work 
to  win  her.  If  you  want  a  husband,  you  act, 
dress,  and  talk  to  please  him.  This  is  well.  As 
you  do  this,  so  does  your  love  grow  and  fasten. 
If  you  want  an  education,  study  brings  it.  If 
you  want  influence,  you  work  for  it.  If 
you  want  happiness,  plan  and  work  for  it. 
Don't  neglect  twice  to  care  for  once.  Even  our 
chronometer,  reliable  to  a  second,  month  after 
month,  must  be  wound  up,  kept  running,  and 
thus  is  always  to  be  relied  on.  So  with  hap 
piness.  Keep  it  running.  Don't  let  it  grow 
cold.  Like  iron  molten  in  blast-furnaces  and 
allowed  to  cool,  there  is  no  getting  it  out  except 
by  aid  of  cold-chisel  and  drudgery,  or  the 
destruction  of  the  furnace.  It  is  hard  to  disturb 
a  dream  and  begin  where  you  left  off.  So  with 
love. 

Be  kind  to  each  other.     Never  speak  a  harsh 
word  to  the  loved  one.     Never  speak  while  in 


14:0  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

anger.  Hot  words,  like  hot  iron,  leave  a  scar 
long  after  the  iron  has  been  taken  away.  Bear 
with  each  other.  Strive  to  make  each  other 
happy.  See  who  can  do  the  most  in  this  way, 
and  be  the  best.  Do  not  order  as  if  he  or  she 
were  a  dog  or  a  slave.  Thank  with  words,  with 
kisses,  with  looks  of  love  for  little  acts,  favors, 
and  kindness.  Coax,  but  never  drive  one  out  of 
the  blues,  depression  of  spirits,  or  sombre 
thoughts.  Here  is  love's  great  mission.  Respect 
the  feelings  and  passion  of  the  other.  Let  your 
life  be  a  trinity  of  love,  dignity,  and  goodness. 
But  do  not  mistake  coarseness,  roughness,  tyr-' 
anny,  and  that  domineering  hauteur,  for  dignity, 
as  many  do. 

And  to  him  who  has  the  work  to  do.  Be 
careful.  Labor  and  save.  Earn  a  home.  You 
can  do  it,  else  you  are  not  so  good  as  other 
men.  Do  not  fool  away  your  earnings.  Do  not 
gamble  till  you  can  afford  to  lose.  Do  not 
spend  money  for  drink,  for  then  your  head,  your 


Standing  before  th$  Minister.          141 

purse,  your  heart  is  robbed.  Earn  and  save, 
little  by  little,  and  in  a  few  years,  a  home  is 
yours. 

The  dollars  you  might  spend  foolishly,  if 
invested  in  clothes  for  your  wife,  would  make 
you  proud  of  her;  in  books,  pictures  or  furni 
ture,  proud  of  your  home.  Take  care  of  what 
you  have;  it  gives  strength  and  encouragement 
to  you  both.  "When  you  buy  a  bundle  to  take 
home,  don't  pawn  it,  throw  it  in  the  gutter,  or 
leave  it  on  some  bar-counter.  That  heart  is  a 
choice  bundle ;  don't  leave  it  here,  or  you'll  lose 
it  in  the  hereafter. 

Have  faith — have  pluck — work — save.  Be 
a  man;  not  a  brute,  but  a  man.  Be  kind  to 
your  home  ones ;  be  with  them  all  you  can ;  take 
them  with  you  all  you  can.  Let  them  know  that 
you  take  more  interest  in  them  than  all  others. 
Leave  your  head  in  your  office,  store,  or  shop; 
take  your  heart  home.  Eomp  and  unbend  from 
care ;  it  wont  hurt  you  one  bit.  Dress-parade  is 


142  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

hard  work.  Keep  sober;  then  you  know  what 
you  are  about,  and  others  will  respect  you  at  all 
times,  and  your  family  will  be  proud  of  you,  and 
you  will  be  proud  of  yourself.  Try  to  be  some 
body,  and  you  will  be  apt  to  succeed.  Give  not 
grudgingly  of  love,  or  kind  words,  or  comforts. 
All  there  is  of  life  is  what  we  get  out  of  it  to 
make  us  happy.  Think  of  her  you  love  at  home. 
The  days  are  long  to  her.  Day  after  day  she 
cooks,  scrubs,  cares  for  you  and  the  little  ones, 
washes,  irons,  mends,  thinks  and  wishes,  and 
hopes  and  fears.  Don't  let  her  lose  confidence 
in  you.  Life  with  one  in  whom  you  have  not 
perfect  confidence  is  hell. 

And  to  youwho  said  "  yes  "  to  his  wooing.  Be 
good  and  love  him.  Let  politics  alone.  Make 
home  happy.  Keep  clean  and  neat.  Try  to 
make  your  room  or  your  home  happy.  Don't 
scold,  nor  pout,  nor  sulk,  nor  be  continually 
looking  into  pockets  and  letters  for  some  evi 
dence  of  something  you  would  like  to  find. 


Standing  before  the  Minister.          143 

Have  confidence  in  him,  and  lie  will  not  be  so 
apt  to  deceive  you.  Help  him  to  live  within 
your  means.  Pay  no  attention  to  dress  and  style 
beyond  your  abilily.  People  care  less  for  us  all 
than  we  imagine.  Dress  plainly,  neatly,  in 
taste.  More  attention  to  the  heart  than  the 
hair. 

Then  try  to  live  for  each  other.  This  is  about 
all  there  is  of  life.  You  can  be  happy  in  a 
cabin  as  in  a  palace,  if  you  will  only  try  to  make 
your  heart  right.  The  only  real  home  wre  have 
on  earth  is  in  the  heart,  the  arms,  or  the  presence 
of  those  we  love,  and  no  one  can  occupy  two 
rooms  at  the  same  time.  Enjoy  that  which  you 
have,  and  thank  God  that  you  live,  are  loved, 
and  have  a  home  in  which  to  enjoy  your  love 
and  rest  from  the  labors  of  the  week,  when  you 
can  go  to  it  like  a  monarch  to  his  throne  when 
comes  the  blessed  Saturday  Night. 


XYI. 


ABOUT  BURDENS,  AND  THOSE  WHO  BEAR  THEM. 


they  never  tiref 

Do  they  care  nothing  for  any  of  us  \ 
Will  there  never  be  a  halt  to  time,  or 
will  the  weeks  rush  by  like  those  swift-rushing 
trains   bearing  heavy  burdens   on  —  on  —  on  — 
on!    leaving    here   and    there    some   article,  as 

we   by  the   weeks   are   left,   but    ever    rushing 
(144) 


Bur  dens )  and  Those  Who  Sear  Them.  .145 

•0 

on?  And  as  those  trains  rush  on,  driven  by 
a  power  we  cannot  see,  so  move  the  weeks 
on  the  down-grade  to  Eternity,  caring  noth 
ing  for  the  ones  who  may  be  ground  to  atoms 
by  the  flying  burden. 

Let  us,  who  are  wise,  look  out  before  the 
train  —  the  coming  of  the  final  week,  which 
will  grind  us  into  endless  pain  if  we  do  not 
step  aside  into  places  of  safety. 

But  those  burdens! 

This  Saturday  Night  we  were  very  tired 
in  mind  and  body,  yet  light  of  heart  as  any 
linnet's  feather,  for  the  work  of  the  week 
was  done  —  as  we  felt,  well  done.  "Not  one 
unkind  word  had  we  spoken  —  not  one  act 
performed  we  would  not  have  our  loved  ones 
know  of  —  no  man  wronged  of  a  penny. 

Homeward,  slowly  walking.  Men  —  glorious, 
muscular,  rough-bearded,  honest-faced  working- 
men—hurried  by  with  their  little  tin  pails, 

every  now   and   then    one  of   them    having  a 
10 


146  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

copy  of  our  newspaper,  bought  of  a  newsboy 
or  from  a  news-stand.  One  man  stopped  at 
a  little  fruit-stand,  threw  down  ten  cents,  and 
said  good-naturedly  to  the  old  woman, — 

"Some  pears,  aunty.  Some  good  ones  for 
my  little  ones,  and  put  'em  in  the  pail." 

They  filled  the  pail  nearly  half-full.  We 
looked  at  him  in  admiration,  and  thought  of 
the  joke  he  would  have  on  the  little  ones 
when  he  gave  them  the  pail  to  put  in  its 
accustomed  place  against  the  Monday.  He 
looked  good  natured,  and  we  asked  him, — 

"How  many  little  ones  have  you?" 

"Four." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"On  Fourth  Street." 

"Can  you  carry  more  than  you  have  in 
your  pail?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Can  you  carry  a  few  things  up  that  way 
for  me?" 


Burdens,  and  Those  Who  Bear  Them.   147 

""Well,  I  am  not  in  the  carrying  business, 
but  I  don't  mind  to  accommodate  a  man." 

"All  right.  Aunty,  fill  that  pail  full  of 
pears.  Now,  if  you  will  carry  these  also  to 
your  little  ones,  and  this  big  Bartlett  to  your 
wife,  and  this  one  for  yourself,  it  will  be  a 
great  accommodation  to  me." 

"Well,  but  — but  — what  for?  Who  are 
you?" 

"Never  mind,  but  take  these  to  your  babies 
for  me,  and  I'll  thank  you;  for  my  baby  is 
away  on  a  visit,  and  I  can't  take  her  any 
to-night,  and  it  will  do  as  well  if  you  take 
them  to  your  little  ones." 

And  we  separated.  He  winked,  and  looked, 
and  walked  on  to  look  back  over  his  shoulder, 
as  did  we.  He  was  not  insulted  at  our  rude 
ness,  for  the  heart  knows  its  friends. 

Then  we  walked  on,  and  on,  and  on!  The 
carriages  rolled  by,  rich  men  sitting  back 
against  the  chshions.  And  the  omnibuses, 


148  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

and  the  street  cars,  and  the  hackney 
coaches,  all  bore  away  to  homes  those 
who  needed  rest.  And  the  cartmen,  with 
tired  horses,  passed  us  to  homes  somewhere. 
And  the  streets  were  full  of  people  on%oot, 
crowding  each  other,  as  a  little  girl,  not  six 
years  old  —  a  ragged,  barefoot,  bare-head,  half- 
dressed  little  thing,  with  a  weazenish,  shrunken, 
famine-pinched  face,  —  came  staggering  across 
the  street,  with  a  heavy  bundle  of  blocks  and 
sticks,  gathered  from  the  ruins  of  a  building 
near  by,  where  the  ILe  had  been  at  work  yes 
terday.  It  was  a  load  we  should  not  have 
cared  to  lug  away,  but  she  hurried  on  as  if 
being  pursued. 

As  thought   directed,  we  touched   her  shoul- 

O  ' 

der  and  lifted  therefrom  the  bundle,  tied  by 
a  dirty  cord.  She  sprang  as  if  struck,  and, 
with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  said, — 

"Please    don't,  sir;    I   didn't  mean  to  steal 
them!" 


Burdens,  and  Those  Who  Bear  Them.   149 

"Come  here,  little  one." 

"No,  sir;    I'd  rather  go  home!" 

"  Come  here  ;  don't  be  afraid.  The  bundle 
is  too  big  for  you ;  we'll  carry  it  a  little 
way  for  you." 

She  looked  at  us,  half  in  doubt,  as  if  fear 
ing  a  trick,  or  arrest,  for  they  drive  children 
away  from  places  where  chips,  little  blocks, 
and  sticks,  are  picked  up  in  great  cities.  They 
are  valuable  —  worth  many  dollars  a  cord  —  and 
luxuries  are  not  for  the  poor!  Think  of  this, 
ye  who  live  in  the  country,  by  timber  where 
the  poor  of  New  York  would  be  happy  if 
they  could  gather  the  limbs,  and  chunks,  and 
bark,  and  sticks  that  are  rotting. 

"  What  is  your  name?" 

"Anna  McKafferty,  sir." 

"Where  do  you  live,  Anna?" 

"In  Houston  Street." 
"  "Is  your  father  alive?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


150  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

"What  does  lie  do?" 

"Nothing,  sir;  but  mother  does." 

"What  does  your  mother  do,  Anna]" 

"She  does  anything  she  can  get  to  do,  sir. 
She  goes  out  to  scrub,  and  takes  care  of 
father." 

"Is  your  father  sick?" 

"Sometimes  he  comes  home  nights  sick, 
so  sick  he  can't  walk,  and  sometimes  mother 
goes  out  to  find  him." 

And  she  told  us  this  as  we  sat  on  the  lit 
tle  bundle,  by  a  fruit-stand  on  the  Bowery. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  little  half-starved,  six- 
year-old  girl,  whose  dress  revealed  the  en 
tire  anatomy  and  structure  of  her  little  skele 
ton  frame,  eat  pears  ?  Did  you  ever  see  a 
half-starved  cat  or  dog  that  had  been  kicked 
and  pounded  by  cruel  people,  eat  a  piece  of 
meat,  gnawing  into  it,  looking  up  and  down, 
and  all  about,  as  if  expecting  some  trick,  some 
blow,  some  order  to  "get  out"?  If  you  who 


Burdens,  and  Those  Who  Bear  Them.   151 

have  plenty  in  the  country,  yet  who  are  always 
growling,  and  whining,  and  finding  fault,  and 
worrying  over  your  supposed  poverty,  could 
see  the  poor  of  our  cities,  you  would  de 
serve  cursing  if  you  did  not  thank  God  for 
what  you  have  and  realize  that  you  were  and 
are  kings  compared  to  the  starved  ones,  the 
human  rats  and  mice  that  literally  hunt  for 
a  living  in  this  great  city. 

From  the  Bowery  into  Houston  Street  went 
this  "  somebody's  baby,"  bearing  her  great  bun 
dle.  God  order  that  no  rough  policeman  hit  her 
with  a  club,  arrest  her  for  stealing  kindling, 
send  her  to  prison,  and  win  promotion  from 
brutal  headquarters!  Although  it  is  wrong  to 
steal,  the  bondholder  and  his  Government 
rob  the  poor  ;  yet  the  poor  must  not  snatch 
a  chip  or  a  crust  and  escape;  for  the  dignity 
of  the  law — the  faith  of  the  Government 
must  be  preserved! 

But    on   she  went  with    her    burden.    And 


152  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

up  the  Bowery  we  walked,  thinking  of  those 
who  bear  great  burdens,  almost  above  their 
strength.  God  pity  them  all  —  old,  yonng, 
friends  or  enemies.  How  many  there  are  whose 
burdens  we  can  see.  But  these  are  not  the 
heaviest !  Men  struggling  to  live,  to  accumu 
late —  to  save  enough  to  make  home  comfort 
able  and  own  their  own  coffins! 

Men  struggling  to  escape  the  burden  of 
dissipation,  yet  lacking  the  pluck  to  walk  out 
from  under  therefrom  like  men. 

Women  with  cold  homes,  cheerless  walls, 
bare  floors,  starving  children,  and  husbands 
going  hellward  through  intoxication,-  leaving 
their  home  ones  uncared  for  —  their  wives  to 
beggary,  their  children  to  the  street  —  their 
daughters  to  prostitution,  the  morgue,  or  death- 
house,  and  to  the  Potter's  Field.  Buds  that 
might  have  blossomed,  torn  off  and  trampled 
into  the  filth  of  the  gutter!  • 


Burdens,  aiid  Those  Who  Bear  Them.   153 

And  the  hidden  burdens  are  the  worst,  for 
none  can  help  us  cany  them,  nor  none  can 
escape  from  them  to  rest.  Let  us  be  careful 
how  we  take  them! 

All  over  the  land  are  they  who  bear  bur 
dens.  Some  of  doubt,  of  fear,  of  mistrust,  of 
disappointment,  of  neglect,  of  cruelty,  of  un- 
kindness,  of  indifference.  We  close  our  eyes 
on  the  surface  to  open  them  to  the  interior 
of  this  picture  of  life,  and  see  burdens  in 
thousands  of  homes, — thousands  of  hearts, —  and 
thank  God  that  ours  are  no  greater. 

And  this  is  our  strength  —  our  life.  No 
matter  what  our  burdens,  there  are  heavier 
ones  borne  by  others!  There  is  no  person  in 
the  world  but  might  be  worse  off.  No  mat 
ter  what  our  load,  somebody,  child  or  adult, 
man  or  woman,  is  bearing  a  heavier  one,  and 
here  is  cause  for  thankful  happiness.  So  we 
do  our  duty,  strive  to  help  those  who  bear  bur- 


15-1 


Our  Saturday  Nights. 


dens,  and  thus  we  do  surely  lighten  and  for 
get  our  own.  And  thus  may  it  ever  be  while 
life  lasts,  from  this  till  our  final  temporal 
Saturday  Night. 


XYII. 
REST  FOR  THE 


'OW  slow"  the  hands  creep  over  the 
dial;  how  the  brain  burns  and  throbs 
as  we  work  and  wait  for  the  coming 
hour  which  will  release  us  from  labor!  Life 
is  but  a  trial  —  a  sentence  —  an  imprisonment 
for  those  who  toil;  and  were  it  not  that  the 

Angel  of    Saturday  Night?  like  some  heaven- 

(155) 


156  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

sent  fairy,  comes  each  week  to  release  us  from 
over-taxing  work  arid  lead  us  to  rest  with, 
the  loved  ones,  death  would  be  sweeter  than  life, 
even  without  its  golden  rewards  for  those  who 
try  to  be  good  and  noble. 

To-night  we  are  too  worn  and  weary  to 
write  as  we  would  like.  We  are  like  thou 
sands  who,  all  the  week,  have  toiled  beyond 
their  strength  to  earn  comforts  for  the  dear 
ones,  and  who  now  feel  to  envy  those  who 
sleep  behind  marble  head-boards  in  the  "  silent 
city."  Oh!  for  the  good  time  coming,  when 
we  can  be  with  the  ones  who  wait  our  coming, 
and  whose  smiles  are  ever  more  life-giving  than 
spring.  The  hours  seem  long  as  we  watch  the 
dial  face,  for  the  welcome  that  awaits  us  has 
in  it  that  love  which  lures  us  to  the  happy 
eternal  by  mellowing  the  heart,  purifying  the 
soul,  and  giving  us  confidence  in  each  other. 

Sometimes  we  think  life  is  not  worth  the 
living.  It  is  not,  to  many.  It  would  not  be 


Rest  far  the  Weary.  157 

for  any  of  us  but  for  the  unspoken  beautiful 
which  draws  us  captive  to  the  hearth  and  fen 
der.  As  love  comes  to  us,  so  we  give  in  re 
turn,  each  to  each,  with  accumulative  interest. 
Smiles  are  born  of  happy  hearts.  Happy  hearts 
are  born  of  better  natures.  Smiles  brighten  our 
pathway;  and  when  the  dearest  eyes  in  all  the 
world  look  into  ours,  so  full,  strong,  deep  and 
earnest,  we  could,  should,  and  would  dare  any 
danger,  face  any  death,  or  wrestle  with  any 
fate  which  stood  between  us  and  the  only 
earthly  reward  there  is  to  life ! 

We  are  weary,  but  only  of  toil.  Others  are 
weary.  Strong  men  are  trembling  in  their 
muscle  to-night,  for  they  have  battled  severely 
all  the  week  to  keep  want  and  hunger  from 
the  sacred  circle  where  gather  those  whose 
hearts,  day  by  day,  run  more  and  more  into 
each  other.  Young  men,  with  hearts  full  of 
embryo  happiness,  golden  dreams,  in  which 
warm  lips,  love-lit  eyes,  trusting  hearts,  and  fu- 


158  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

ture  homes  of  their  own  are  mixed  floating,  as 
incentives  to  strive  with  earnestness  —  they  are 
weary. 

But  the  day  comes  when  they  will  be 
more  so,  when  they  will  go  slowly  to  their  homes 
with  bent  forms,  as  do  thousands  who  will 
rest  in  their  graves  before  there  comes  to 
any  of  us  another  Saturday  Night. 

And  the  watcher  by  the  hearth  is  weary! 
She,  too,  has  toiled  all  the  week.  That  clean 
floor,  that  well-kept  hearth  and  fender,  the 
snowy  linen,  the  clean  dishes,  the  sweet,  clean 
shelves  in  pantry  and  cupboard,  the  clean 
doors,  walls,  and  windows;  that  look  of  home 
cheer  which  should  mark  every  earthly  heaven ; 
that  tidy,  sweet,  lovable  look,  no  matter  for 
the  years,  tell  that  she  too  has  labored  and 
is  weary.  Then,  good  man,  working-inan  and 
brother  in  toil,  be  kind,  speak  kindly,  act 
kindly,  lovingly,  to  the  one  who  has  worked 
for  you  as  you  have  for  her. 


Rest  for  the  Weaiy.  159 

Slie  is  the  one  who  cares  most  for  you,  who 
in  heart  is  the  dearest;  she  is  to  you  as  you 
are  to  her  —  two  silken  strands  weaving  to 
gether  to  bless  or  to  curse  as  you  will.  The 
world  cares  not  for  you.  Not  one  of  us  is 
of  account  to  the  world,  for  it  moves  whether 
we  do  or  not;  it  was  here  when  we  came; 
it  will  be  here  with  all  its  cold,  selfish  in 
difference  when  we  die,  and  centuries  after 
we  are  forgotten  except  in  the  deeds  we  do 
worth  remembering.  After  a  time  will  come 
the  final  Saturday  Night  to  all  of  us,  and 
the  only  ones  who  will  weep  and  mourn,  as 
we  would  for  them,  will  be  the  ones  who 
welcome  us  to  the  hearth  and  fender;  who 
love  us  far  more  dearly  than  pen  or  words  of 
ours  can  tell;  who  have  often  been  weary,  but 
always  entitled  to  more  rest  and  happiness 
than  any  of  us  here  below. 

Let  us  love  best  those  who  are  dearest  and 
kindest,  and  most  in  sympathy.  Very  soon 


160  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

there  will  be  no  going  forth  Monday  morn 
ing —  no  more  use  for  the  little  tin  pail- 
no  more  need  to  walk  with  rapid  steps  lest 
we  be  late.  Instead  of  listening  to  the  noise 
outside,  of  looking  closely  with  eye  and  brain 
npon  the  work  to  do;  instead  of  toiling  for 
those  we  love  and  for  ourselves,  there  will  be 
a  little  room,  with  perhaps  a  few  pictures 
therein  —  a  weary  watching  of  shadows  on  the 
wall  —  a  nervous,  tiresome,  restless,  turning 
upon  a  sick  bed  as  we  toss  like  infants,  help 
less  in  the  care  of  the  loved  ones. 

Then  the  hours  will  fly,  oh!  so  swiftly,  as 
we  are  called  to  look  with  eyes  of  life  upon 
those  who  are  left  behind  to  weep,  and  pray, 
and  mourn.  Then  will,  like  panoramas,  pass 
by  the  work  we  have  done,  the  plans  made, 
and  the  results  accomplished;  the  streets  "of 
the  city,  with  their  staring  and  glaring  walls 
Will  fade  out;  the  changing  scenes  of  earth 
will  melt  out  and  float  down  the  turbid  wa- 


Rest  for  the  Weary.  161 

ters  of  the  past,  the  only  pictures  engraven 
upon  our  hearts  being  the  faces,  the  forms, 
the  smiles,  the  eye-whispers  of  the  loved  ones 
we  hope  soon  to  meet;  and  the  only  creden 
tials  for  His  beautiful  land  and  a  home  where 
none  but  loved  ones  enter  the  good  acts,  kind 
words,  and  noble  deeds,  great  or  small,  given 
bv  us  to  the  ones  who  with  us  are  ever 

*/ 

weary  but  ever  needing  the  love  and  kindness 
we  who  are  strong  at  times  fail  to  give. 

When  this  day  comes  there  will  be  no  more 
weariness,  wThile  the  prayers  of  those  who  will 
mourn  our  departure  will  bear  us  to  the  land 
of  the  leal,  where  we  can  rest,  or  return  in 
spirit  to  guard  and  bless  those  dear  to  us  now. 

Life  is  nothing;  but  for  those  we  love  it 
would  not  be  worth  the  living.  Then  let  us 
all  who  are  men,  be  better,  truer,  more  de 
serving.  Let  us  take  more  care  of  ourselves, 
of  our  health  of  our  earnings,  that  those 

who  look  with    joy  for    our    coming    may    be 
11 


162  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

glad,  and  by  faith,  love,  kindness  deserved, 
and  trusting  sympathy,  help  us  all  to  reach 
the  Eternal  Island  of  the  true,  where  there 
will  be  no  more  labor;  no  more  oppression 
for  poor;  no  more  robbing  of  those  who  toil 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  do  not ;  no 
no  more  vain  watchings,  and  no  more  Saturday 
Nights. 


XYIII, 
ONLY  A  POOR  OLD  "WOOD-SAWYEK  ! 


L.TUEDAY  NIGHT,  and  the  welcome 
rest  it  brings!  And  life  spared,  we 
hope,  for  some  good  purpose,  as  time 

will   tell  when  the  string  of  seven-day  beads 

are  all  counted ! 


He   could  not  have  been  less  than   seventy 

(163) 


164  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

years  of  age.  We  saw  him  this  afternoon, 
with  his  ragged  clothes,  wrinkled  face,  bent 
form,  and  thin,  white  hair,  working  on  the 
sidewalk,  sawing  a  little  pine  kindling-wood, 
and  throwing  it  into  the  cellar,  through  a 
little  round  trap-hole.  His  battered  hat  was 
on  a  step  hard  by.  His  little  old  saw  hardly 
felt  the  power  that  •  sent  it  slowly  through 
the  wood,  for  the  arm  was  feeble,  as  was  the 
life-current  of  the  poor  old  man. 

We  paused  in  our  walk  to  look  at  him. 
Time  was  cutting  away  at  him  as  he  was  at 
the  wood,  and  soon  he  too  will  drop  out  of 
sight.  God  give  him  good  rest  when  comes 
the  day. 

"Good  evening,  uncle!" 

"  ~Eh-cee  !    ch-cce  !    eh-cee  !    eh-cee  !    eh-cee  !  " 

He  did  not  stop  till  the  stick  was  in  two, 
and  WQ  spoke  in  louder  tone, — 

"Good  evening,  uncle.  Your  job  is  most 
done!" 


Only  a  Poor  Old  Wood-sawyer!       165 

He  slowly  raised  from  his  labor,  rubbed 
the  bare  right  arm  across  his  forehead,  looked 
at  us  for  half  a  minute,  and  slowly  said, — 

"Yes;   my  work  is  most  done!" 

"Let  us  saw  a  few  sticks,  just  for  luck 
and  old  times." 

The  old  man  looked  at  us  from  head  to 
foot,  shook  his  head,  and  said, — 

"Please  don't  fool  with  an  old  man!" 

"Let  me  take  your  saw." 

Mechanically  he  handed  it  to  us,  and  we 
finished  his  task  while  he  sat  and  rested, 
evidently  wondering  if  the  "new  man"  at  the 
job  were  crazy  or  a  myth.  And  we  thought, 
as  we  sawed  the  dozen  sticks,  that  the  work 
of  the  old*  man  was  almost  done,  and  wondered 
if  God  would  doom  us  to  live  so  long  here, 
away  from  the  beautiful  "over  there"!  And 
we  thought;  and  thought  that  man  was 
much  like  the  saw:  went  up  and  down, 
cutting  his  way  through  life,  at  last  to  get 


166  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

through  just  in  time  to  see  the  sticks  he  has 
sawed  taken  for  use  by  others! 

Then,  what  do  we  amount  to  more  than 
the  saw?  This!  there  is  a  power,  a  Grand 
Arm,  that  directs  us  for  a  purpose ;  that  causes 
us  to  cut  blocks,  to  shorten  old  styles  of 
doing  work,  to  fit  our  work  to  the  great 
temple  being  built  silently  in  the  East. 

Then  we  sat  and  talked  a  few  moments 
with  the  old  man.  And  he  told  us  the 
simple  story  of  a  life  —  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  told  it.  No  romance,  but  plain  truth. 
And  this  it  was: 

Born.  Heared  by  wealthy  parents  near 
Eochester.  Came  to  New  York,  years  ago, 
when  a  young  man.  Clerk  in  a  hardware 
store  on  lower  Pearl  Street.  Gay  fellow  with 
the  boys.  Married.  Spent  his  wife's  fortune; 
buried  her,  lived  in  dissipation;  "luck" 
went  against  him  when  his  old  cronies  saw 
him  going  ruinward.  Ten  years  he  had  lived 


Only  a  Poor  Old  Wood-sawyer/       167 

in  cellars  and  garrets,  on  floors,  straw  mat 
rasses,  coarse  food,  and  sometimes  none,  and 
sometimes  good  meals,  as  those  for  whom  he 
had  done  odd  jobs  at  times  called  him  into 
the  kitchen. 

This  was  the  story.  Hardly  more  words 
than  years  to  his  life.  But  he  was  almost 
through  work.  A  little  longer,  and  then  good 
bye,  old  saw  and  weary  tramps  for  a  little 
work.  He  said  the  saw  was  better  than 
none.  "When  I  file  the  saw  it  works  well. 
13ut  men  don't  do  so:  sometimes  they  don't 
do  anything  for  what  you  do  for  them!" 
This  is  what  the  old  man  said,  and  it  struck 
us  as  a  great  truth  sawed  out  of  life  by  nearly 
eighty  years  of  toil! 

Then  we  walked  and  talked.  The  heart  of 
the  old  man  had  gone.  ~No  home;  not  one 
to  love  or  care  for  him.  "What  mattered 
houses  or  lands  to  him;  or  horses  or  car 
riages;  or  diamonds,  or  jewelry?  No  one  was 


168  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

glad  when  lie  came  or  sorry  when  he  went. 
The  joyous  echoes  of  the  past  were  drowned 
so  deep  in  the  dissipation  of  years  agone, 
they  came  to  him  only  in  dreams! 

What  an  ending  to  life!  God's  gift  toward 
advancement  frittered  away!  Thrown  away, 
despised,  trodden  under  feet,  ignored,  drowned 
in  dissipation  and  murdered,  while  "good 
fellows"  clanked  glasses  and  laughed  at  the 
fools  who  raved  of  life,  of  love,  of  honor, 
of  manhood,  of  earnings,  that  when  came  the 
day  to  rest,  there  might  be  a  place.  Even 
birds  save  bits  of  down  and  lint,  carrying 
them  miles  to  soften  their  nests! 

And  we  came  home,  thinking  of  life  and  its 
duties,  and  of  the  poor  old  men  all  over  the 
land.  Of  those  who  had  no  regard  for  the 
future  when  they  dulled  their  lives  foolishly 
and  tossed  the  days  down  their  throats.  And 
of  the  poor  old  men,  in  shops,  and  on  farms; 
and  working  by  the  roadside  to  catch  up  in 


Only  a  Poor  Old  Wood-sawyer/       169 

the  race,  and  to  help  bury  in  paupers'  graves 
those  still  poorer  than  themselves.  And  of 
the  poor  old  men  whose  nights  are  full  of 
tremors  and  ugly  dreams,  as  they  sleep  on  the 
briars  and  thorns  of  that  life  from  which  they 
cut  out  the  beautiful  to  save  the  bad! 

"What  would  you,  honest  reader,  say  to  a 
man  who  should  go  into  his  flower-garden, 
and,  with  knife,  shears,  pincers,  fingers,  or  hot 
poison,  cut  off,  tear  out,  and  kill  the  beautiful 
buds,  flowers,  and  seeds;  leaving  the  roots, 
sharp-pointed  limbs,  and  odorless  sticks  as 
ornaments?  "Well,  that  man  lives  on  each 
side  of  us.  He  lives  everywhere.  And  when 
he  dies,  what  a  bouquet  will  his  garden  afford 
for  the  coffin!  And  there  are  girls  —  women, 
who  thus  do.  God  pity  them,  for  they  are 
insane ! 

And  there  are  others  who  go  into  their 
garden,  cutting  out  the  roots  that  give  troubles 
and  against  which  toes  are  caught,  and  branches, 


170  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

that  bear  no  flowers,  and  flowers  that  give  no 
fragrant  odor.  Some  will  ride  or  walk  by,  and 
sneer  at  the  honest  worker  to-day;  but  they 
pause  to  admire  to-morrow!  And  they  want 
to  know  how  he  made  his  garden  so  beautiful ! 
And  they  will  send  there  for  flowers  to  deck 
the  bridal  vail  or  the  funeral  pall. 

The  poor  old  man  passed  on  to  his  garret  on 
Eighty-first  Street,  and  we  to  our  writing. 
Such  poor  old  men  we  pity.  No  one  seems  to 
care  for  them.  They  are  taxed  on  their  matches, 
on  their  rags,  on  their  crust  of  bread,  on 
their  pipe  and  tobacco,  on  their  medicine 
to  benefit  the  rich.  And  it  must  be  so  lonely, 
this  being  near  the  wharf,  with  no  one  to  go 
ashore  with  you  that  you  know,  or  who  cares 
for  you! 

Give  us  years  that  bend  the  chin  to  the 
chest  if  you  will,  but,  O  God  in  Heaven,  give 
us  some  one  to  love  even  then,  when  the  night 
is  coming  upon  us!  The  night  that  but  hides 


Only  a  Poor  Old  Wood-sawyer  !       171 

the  morn;  but  still,  the  night!  It  must  be 
fearful  to  die  alone — and  no  one  so  alone  as 
the  poor  who  are  alone  and  unloved. 

Kings  and  queens  are  those  without  dollars 
or  dimes  who  may  be  old  and  poor,  but  yet 
loved  and  honorable.  Hand  in  hand  down  the 
narrowing  lane !  There  is  glory  in  the  old  love, 
life  in  the  old  caresses,  heart  in  the  old 
kisses,  and  heaven  in  the  flickering  of  that  old 
life,  which,  with  loved  ones,  wanders  in  beau 
tiful  gardens,  from  which  those  who  wander 
and  rest  'neath  fragrant  shades  picked  and 
clipped  the  thorns  and  brambles  long  ago. 

Let  us  all  speak  kindly  to  those  who  are 
old  and  growing  old.  Very  soon  the  nar 
rowing  road  will  shut  them  out,  and  very 
soon  we,  too,  will  go  out.  And  as  we  do  by 
the  poor  and  aged  ones,  so  will  others  do  kindly 
or  unkindly  by  us,  when  our  work  is  ended  .and 
'comes,  to  rich  and  poor,  old  and  young,  loved 
and  unloved,  the  final  Saturday  Night. 


XIX. 

HOME  TO  THE  LOVED  ONES. 

LL  the  week   at  work.     Day  after  day 
came  and  went  like  echoes  from  wond 
rous    shores.     Morn,   noon,  and  night,   in 
each    other's  hand,   closed  upon  the  labors   of 
ns  all,  and  made  another  volume  of  seven  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent  chapters. 

The  work  of  the  week  is  finished,  and  now, 

(172) 


Home  to  the  Loved  Ones.  173 

weary,  lieart  sore,  doubting  life  and  not  fear 
ing  death,  we  put  by  the  pen  and  go  home 
with  those  who,  with  us,  have  labored  hard  all 
the  week  past. 

Saturday  Night  is  the  jewel  of  His  evening 
crown.  It  is  the  oasis  on  the  desert  of  la 
bor,  for  here  we  rest.  A  week  is  not  much, 
yet  it  is  more  than  a  life  to  many.  Look 
about. 

See  the  honest  laborers,  the  men  of  toil,  the 
ones  who  are  building  up  the  country  and 
working  themselves  into  the  graves  for  the 
benefit  of  others,  or  to  sustain  life.  "We  have 
seen  them  all  the  past  week  —  all  the  past 
weeks  of  life.  Men  in  shops,  in  stores,  in 
offices;  men  through  w^hose  veins  the  hot  life 
of  blood  courses  as  they  build  castles  in  the  air 
for  themselves  and  their  loved  ones  to  occupy; 
men  who  have  long  since  passed  the  centre, 
and  now  verge  upon  the  eternal.  All  the 
days  we  have  thought  of  the  workingmen,  of 


174  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

the   ones  who  are,  by  labor,  either  of  head  or 
hand,  supporting  themselves  and  home  ones. 

To-night  they  are  going  home.  Tired,  and 
needing  rest,  nervous,  and  needing  kind  words, 
they  are  going  to  their  loved  ones,  and  most 
earnestly  do  we  say,  joy,  love,  peace,  and  hap 
piness  be  theirs.  For  the  workingmen  deserve 
all  this. 

And,  good  wife,  when  he  comes  home  tired, 
be  kind  to  him.  Hours  after  hours,  days  after 
days,  he  works  to  make  a  home.  He  works 
for  you  and  the  little  ones.  He  thinks  of  you 
often — so  often!  lie  saves  where  he  might 
spend  foolishly,  and  thinks  of  a  thousand 
plans  to  benefit  his  loved  ones  and  beautify 
his  home. 

See  the  books,  the  papers,  the  pictures,  the 
carpets,  the  little  keepsakes  he  has  from  time 
to  time  brought  with  him.  Each  article  cost 
him  toil.  His  hands  may  be  hard,  but  his 
heart  is  warm.  No  man  in  all  the  world  gives 


Home  to  the  Loved  Ones.  175 

so  liberally  to  help  the  needy  and  relieve  dis 
tress  as  does  the  man  who  earns  his  bread  in 
the  sweat  of  his  face,  and  by  the  muscle  of 
his  arms.  It  may  be  but  little 'he  gives,  but 
that  little  is  a  part  of  himself— drops  from 
the  fountain  which  is  filled  but  once,  and 
which  is  lowered  and  lessened  each  week 
when  comes  Saturday  Night. 

Hour  after    hour  we  sit  and    think  of    the 
little  homes  of    America.    We    look    in  upon 
thousands  and  thousands  who   see  us   not,  and 
never    think    of    our    looking.      We    love    the 
homes  of  those  who  labor,  for  they  seem  dearer 
than  the  homes  of  the  rich,  who  need  no  one 
to    pity  them.    We    look    in   upon    those  who 
live  in  little  rooms  up   stairs  — small  rooms   in 
cellars.     Upon  those   who    have    homes,  whole 
homes   of    their  own;    we    see,  in  some,   good 
wives  waiting,  with   cheerful  face,   the   coming 
of  the  tired  one  who  is  so  loved.     And  we  see, 
in  some,  clean,  happy  children,  joyful,  for  papa 


176  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

is  soon  coming  to  kiss,  to  romp,  to  gladden. 
Then  we  say,  God  bless  the  workingmen 
who  have  homes,  no  matter  whether  they  like 
us  or  not. 

And  in  some  homes  we  see  wives  cross  and 
peevish,  dirty,  slatternly,  careless.  They  are 
not  the  girls  once  so  loved,  for  time  has 
wrought  changes.  And  we  see  children,  dirty 
and  unrestrained,  noisy  and  saucy,  reflecting 
no  credit  on  parents. 

And  we  see  homes  where  the  floors  are 
bare,  the  walls  unornamented  by  a  single  pic 
ture,  the  cupboard  empty,  the  coal-box  empty 
or  the  wood  pile  low,  the  home  ones  clad  in 
rags;  for  the  one  who  should  care  for  and 
protect  them  has  spent  his  earnings  in  dissipa 
tion,  to  make  attractive  those  places  which 
ruin  him.  But  we  will  not  chide,  for  may  be 
cold  words,  hot  words,  cutting  words,  and 
that  unspoken  and  unspeakable  sorrow  of  the 
heart  which  no  one  can  find  words  to  tell 


Home  to  the  Loved  Ones.  177 

all  of,  lias  sent  him  often  to  any  place  rather 
than  the  cruel  mockery  of  home.  God  pity 
all  of  us! 

Do  you  ever  think,  working  brother,  of 
home  and  the  beauties  you  can  crowd  therein? 
Loved  ones,  who  are  so  happy  when  you  come 
with  kind  words  to  greet  them.  Rooms  made 
beautiful  by  result  of  labor;  books,  pictures, 
papers,  magazines,  in  which  you  can  read 
the  thoughts  of  those  who  toil  with  the 
brain.  And  as  you  think  of  home  all  the 
week,  are  you  not  glad  that  there  comes  Sat 
urday  Night  for  us  to  give  to  those  who  have 
seen  us  so  little  all  the  week?  We  do  not 
like  cold  homes,  cheerless  homes,  where  the 
heart  is  a  tortured  prisoner,  but  a  bright, 
happy  home,  where  the  loved  wait  our  com 
ing. 

The  homo  we  can  have,  if  we  will  it;  the 
home  we  can  work  for  and  be  thankful  for. 

The  home  where  a  warm,  true,  trusting  heart, 
13 


178  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

dearer  almost  than  the  promise  of  Heaven, 
waits  our  coming.  The  home  where  she  waits, 
with  bursting  heart,  deep  love-lit  eye,  and 
moist,  loving  lips,  to  welcome  us  as,  hand  in 
hand,  heart  to  heart,  there  is  given  such  a 
welcome  and  unspoken  vows  for  the  future  as 
no  tongue  or  pen  can  tell.  Home,  where  the 
heart  is  at  rest,  where  one  can  sit  for  hours 
reading  the  volumes  of  love,  unwritten,  as  they 
'come  from  the  eye  that  telegraphs  to  eye 
words  and  secrets  others  know  not  of. 

Would  to  Him  who  gives  out  the  new  days 
and  calls  in  the  old  ones,  torn,  blackened,  dis 
graced  and  blotted  by  us  on  earth,  that  in  all 
the  land  were  none  but  happy  homes,  true 
loves  'and  true  hearts  for  all  who  toil,  and  bear 
burdens  of  heart  or  body.  And  if  words  of 
ours,  or  the  energies  of  life,  can  or  will  make 
even  one  poor  mortal  happier  or  better;  if 
words  we  can  say  which  come  from  the  heart 
can  lighten  the  load  all  must  bear,  then  will 


Home  to  the  Loved  Ones. 


179 


we  be  more  than  thankful  that  God  gave  us 
life  and  a  heart  to  think  of  and  write  for 
those  who,* with  us,  have  toiled  all  the  week, 
and  who  would  rest  Saturday  ISught. 


XX. 

ABOUT  THAT  LITTLE  "  YES." 

^iW^  AST  Saturday  Night  a  maid!    This  Sat 
urday  Night  a  wife ! 

"We  knew  her  years  ago,  when  but  a 
little  girl;  a  romping,  bright-eyed,  pretty-faced 
little  darling,  the  pet  of  all  and  the  promise  of 
surpassing  loveliness.  Year  by  year  she  grew, 

till  the  years  came  upon  her  like  flakes  of  snow 
(180) 


About  that  Little  "Yes."  181 

to  protect  her  loving  purity,  and  at  last  her  heart 
warmed  with  a  new  love ;  and  one  Saturday 
Night  the  "  Yes"  she  said,  closed  the  past  and 
opened  the  future  to  —  God  only  knows  what ! 

It  was  one  night  when  the  week  was  resting 
from  its  whirl,  and  the  good  angel  was  weeping 
over  our  records,  as  the  revolving  days  had 
stamped  the  good  and  the  bad  of  our  lives  on 
the  lasting  pages  before  him,  that  a  chosen  one 
came  to  the  door.  How  her  heart  throbbed,  as  it 
trembled,  for,  it  knew  not  what.  The  hours  had 
been  longer  than  their  wont  all  day,  for  he  was 
coming.  The  sunset  seemed  so  long  a-coming; 
the  twilight  seemed  so  loitersome,  even  after  the 
golden  pattern  for  the  morrow's  clouds  had  been 
left  in  the  west,  that  a  shade  of  anxiety  rested 
over  the  face  of  the  darling  who  waited. 

But  he  came.  Who  could  not  tell  his  step 
from  all  others?  And  who  touched  the  door 
knob  as  he  ?  ISTo  one !  And  by  her  side  he 
sat.  Hand  in  hand,  palm  on  palm  resting,  eye 


182  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

reading  eye,  and  hearts  sweetly  communing. 
The  hours  of  man  were  the  seconds  of  God,  so 
quickly  did  they  drop  into  the  well  of  time. 
And  as  the  new  week  came,  with  its  flowery 
promises  to  cover  the  sorrows  of  the  old  between 
the  dead  "  now  "  and  the  living  "  then ; "  as  the 
seven-day  volume  was  closed,  not  lips  alone,  but 
hands,  eyes,  heart,  and  soul  said,  "  Yes ! " 

One  long,  pure,  trusting,  lingering  kiss,  calling 
back  all  the  kisses  before  given !  and  to  the  new 
week  was  born  a  new  betrothal.  This  was  then  ; 
one  of  the  Saturday  Nights  of  the  past.  And 
since  then  there  was  another  kiss,  as  out  on  the 
great  sea  went  the  new  voyagers,  brave,  trusting, 
hopeful,  loving. 

God  be  with  them.  And  God  be  with  her. 
She  is  good  and  pure.  She  has  given  him  all  of 
her  past,  present,  and  future,  even  to  the  foot  of 
the  beautiful  throne.  Her  dreams  in  the  past  arc 
on  the  shelves  of  the  future ;  God  grant  they 
may  blossom  more  beautiful  than  the  budding. 


About  that  Little  "Yes."  183 

But  these  words  from  a  friend  who  loves  those 
who  love.  From  one  who  is  hastening  on  to  the 
shore  which  bids  good-bye  to  every  Saturday 
Night,  and  crosses  us  to  the  golden  Sabbath  of  a 
more  busy  rest.  Busier,  for  we  shall  have  more 
to  do  ;  more  rest,  for  we  shall  know  how  better ! 
These  words  from  one  who  has  had  joys  and  sad 
ness,  oh,  so  deep  and  wearisome  to  heart  and 
brain : 

The  future  of  life  is  much  as  the  past  and  the 
present.  Not  all  the  clouds  we  look  upon  are 
lined  with  that  silver  we  can  easily  reach,  though 
there  is  a  lining  for  us  if  we  but  seek  it  aright. 
Not  every  flower  on  the  distant  plain  to  which 
we  are  walking  is  fragrant,  nor  the  coloring 
as  bright  as  in  our  dreams,  for  then  we  have 
glimpses  of  the  beautiful  Eternal  Land  to 
which  the  soul  strays  while  we  sleep. 

There  will  come  trials  and  sorrows,  and 
troubles  will  ride  on  disappointments  to  find 
lodging  in  our  hearts.  But  they  will  go  as  they 


184:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

come  if  we  do  not  bid  them  to  stay !  There  will 
be  sad  hours  ;  for  these  we  all  have  ;  even  Christ, 
our  Redeemer,  had.  But  only  for  a  time  ! 

When  comes  the  night,  he  will  come,  perhaps 
tired  and  weary,  while  you  are  rested.  Be  kind 
to  him.  Little  do  ye  know  of  man's  temptations. 
Thus  it  was  from  the  first,  and  we  shall  be  for 
given  as  we  forgive  others.  Do  not  expect  too 
much.  Wooing  is  the  blossom ;  wearing  is  the 
fruit,  which  lasts  only  with  care  !  And  as  ye  are 
hopeful,  so  will  ye  be  happy.  The  new  life  is 
opening  before  you.  The  great  mission  must  be 
filled,  for  thus  is  the  vineyard  worked  from  the 
beginning. 

Oh  the  beauty  of  that  faith  which  sets  two 
hearts  voyaging  across  the  wondrous  ocean.  The 
journey  may  be  long  or  short  for  one  or  both ; 
but  there  is  a  meeting  over  there  for  those  who 
loved  on  earth.  The  days  go  by  like  shadows  in 
pursuit  of  dimmer  ones.  The  reality  comes  to 
mock  the  ideal.  The  trials  come  to  perfect  our 


About  that  Little  "Yes?  185 

love  and  strengthen  our  faith  in,  and  usefulness 
for  the  future. 

All  over  the  land  are  those  who  last  Saturday 
Night  were  maidens,  who  now  are  wives.  God 
bless  all  such.  And  may  the  married  ones  ever 
be  mated.  And  if  not,  then  let  the  heart  speak, 
for  the  bird  will  rest  and  fold  its  wings  where  its 
home  is,  no  matter  how  far  away. 

Let  those  who  love,  love  more  and  be  good  to 
each  other,  for  thus  life  rests  easy  on  us.  Keep 
back  the  cross  words,  and  drive  doubts  of  him  oi 
lier  from  -your  hearts.  Strive  to  be  good  and 
kind.  Often  sit  together  as  before  wedlock, 
which,  as  a  ribbon  or  a  chain,  joined  you  together, 
were  it  before  man  or  before  Him  w^ho  holds  us 
all  in  keeping.  Rest  on  the  roses,  not  the 
thorns!  Look  over  little  evils,  and  great  ones 
will  not  come  so  quickly!  Bear  with  life's 
burdens  bravely,  and  they  will  be  lighter! 
Strive  and  to  make  others  so.  Guard  \vell  your 
hearts  to  be  happy  and  your  homes,  beautifying 
both  day  after  day. 


186  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Let  no  Saturday  Night  come  that  the  one  you 
love  is  not  in  heart  dearer  to  you ;  let  no  new 
Sunday  volume  of  days  be  opened  till  the  errors 
of  the  last  be  told  and  forgiven ;  then  will  you  be 
happy.  And  you,  brothers,  who  toil,  let  no  Sat 
urday  Night  come  that  you  do  not  add  some 
thing  to  the  comforts  of  home  and  the  loved 
one  ;  and  the  secret  of  happiness  is  before  you. 

God  bless  all  who  toil ;  who  struggle ;  who 
sincerely  love  each  other.  Each  of  us  has  another 
heart  to  make  happy;  and  from  the  lessons  of 
the  past  let  us  all  learn  wisdom  for  the  future. 

But  all  are  not  happy  ;  all  cannot  be.  Hearts 
will  wander  to  their  resting ;  but  when  that  rest 
is  found  let  the  door  be  closed,  that  none  else 
enter ;  that  we  may,  with  the  ones  we  truly  love, 
in  health  or  sickness,  poverty  or  wealth,  now  as 
then,  go  hand  in  hand,  by  day  and  by  night,  in 
sunshine  and  in  storm,  hopeful  and  happy,  with 
trusting  hearts  to  that  land  where  never  comes  a 
Saturday  Night. 


XXL 

SHE  BKOUGUT  A  SKELETON. 


days  more  wound  on  tlio  invisible 
reel!     And   each   day  a  record  for  His 
inspection.     If  there  is  much  we  would 
like  blotted  out  now,  full  of  life  and  business  that 
we  are,  how  much  is  there  for  Him  to  shake  His 
head  at  ;   how  much  we   would   wish  had  not 

been  written  by  that  wondrous  pen  when   the 

(187) 


188  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

record  of  life  is  open  before  us!  "Will  we 
believe  that  record  —  those  facts  —  when  the 
book  is  passed  to  us,  and  there  comes  before  us 
page  after  page,  marking  the  days  from  birth  to 
burial  ?  Will  we  not  think  the  record  of  some 
one  else  has  been  taken  down  by  mistake  ?  No  ? 
Will  we  believe  when  we  see  f  Yes ! 

And  who  of  us  will  have  credits  on  that  book 
O  that  all  of  us  might  have  more  than  we  shall 
have!   and   then  there  will   be  none  too  many 
But  not  of  this  to-night. 

To-day  we  have  been  thinking.  This  morning 
there  came  to  our  private  room  a  sad-faced 
woman,  a  stranger  to  us.  A  thousand  miles 
and  more  had  she  ridden  to  tell  us  her  simple 
yet  sorrowful  story,  and  to  ask  the  advice  of  one 
she  believed  would  advise  honestly.  The  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks,  like  rain  down  window- 
panes  when  the  storm  is  terrible  outside,  as  hers 
was  in. 

She  was   a  wife  —  a  mother.     She    came  to 


She  Brought  a-  Skeleton.  189 

show  us  the  skeleton  in  her  soul;  to  tell  us  her 
.sorrow.  Her  only  daughter,  a  fair  girl  of  several 
teens,  had  gone  from  her.  The  cruel  treatment 
of  a  father  had  driven  the  poor  girl  out  upon  the 
world.  From  home  she  went  to  honest  labor; 
from  this  to  companionship  with  those  whose 
hearts  and  self-control  are  not  anchored;  from 
this  to  an  assumed  name  and  into  the  whirlpool 
of  fast  life  in  this  terrible  city. 

Could  we  find  her?  Would  we  find  her? 
Dare  we  find  her?  Could  we  save  her?  Would 
we,  and  how  ?  And  the  tears  came  out  to  give 
her  heart  room  for  its  sobs,  its  sighs,  its  sorrows, 
and  its  sadness ! 

Yes :  we  can  find  her,  and  we  will ;  and  some 
night  like  this  we  will  tell  you  where,  and  what 
she  said. 

And  we  have  been  thinking  all  the  day. 
Thinking  of  those  who  bear  sorrows,  and  whose 
hearts  are  heavy  as  if  laden  with  molten  potash, 
which  eats,  and  burns,  and  scars,  beyond  God's 


190  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

shown  power  to  heal,  this   side  the  great  well- 
making. 

We  see  persons  on  the  streets  —  in  their  homes. 
They  toil,  and  rest,  and  laugh,  and  weep.  There 
is  a  volcano  in  each  heart,  throwing  out  bitterness 
and  sadness,  yet  the  world  knows  not  and  cares 
not.  Then  why  uncover  a  disfigured  corpse  for 
others  to  gaze  on  and  satisfy  morbid  desires? 
Only  to  those  who  are  friends ! 

We  have  been  thinking  of  the  thousands  of 
beautiful  girls,  who  are  lost  to  their  homes  and 
themselves,  flying  like  down  before  .the  gale,  or 
in  the  draft  which  draws  them  to  certain  heat, 
blackness,  and  destruction.  The  dress  is  not 
more  varied  than  their  adopted  names.  And 
how  many  of  these  are  wept  for  by  mothers  who 
mourn  as  only  mothers  can  mourn,  and  are 
cursed  as  only  men  can  curse  ?  They  who  are 
thus  fading  before  perdition's  fires  are  not  happy, 
for  there  is  no  happiness  out  of  that  path  of  vel- 


She  Brought  a  Skeleton.  191 

vet  sward  hedged  by  the  beautiful  flowers  of 
Eight. 

Did  you  ever  see  swamps  covered  with  a  seem 
ing  carpet  of  beautiful  green?  And  did  you 
ever  see  men  and  cattle  wading  and  sinking 
where  all,  from  even  a  short  distance,  seemed  so 
fair? 

There  are  many  swamps,  as  God  duplicates 
His  creation. 

The  one  who  wept  before  us  this  morning  had 
been  remiss  in  her  duty.  She  paid  the  interest 
of  her  penalty  in  sobs  and  tears ;  death  alone 
can  pay  the  principal ! 

Mothers — fathers, — think  of  your  daughters. 
Love  them  more ;  care  for  them ;  protect  them ; 
guard  them  more  closely.  The  dress  you 
make  to-day  is  worn  for  a  long  journey!  The 
little  one  in  the  cradle,  or  playing  at  your  feet, 
you  watch  or  neglect  in  her  plays  or  romps,  will 
be  a  curse  or  a  blessing  as  her  early  education  is 
right  or  wrong. 


192  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Some  there  are,  born  to  be  bad,  but  they  are 
few.  God  will  never  ask  for  our  dollars,  but 
will  demand  the  souls  we  save  or  lose  —  which 
lie  gave. 

There  are  wives  and  mothers,  in  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  homes  where  this  chap 
ter  will  be  read.  God  bless  all  who  read  it,  and 
all  who  do  not.  And  there  are  wives  and  moth 
ers  in  the  grasp  of  poverty,  but  not  so  poor  as  the 
one  who  came  to  us  this  morning,  for  her  wealth 
had  gone,  perhaps  never  to  be  returned,  at  least 
with  seal  unbroken  and  stamp  of  purity  uncan- 
celled ! 

There  are  those  in  little  cabins,  log-houses 
rented  rooms,  garrets,  cellars,  farm  houses,  vil 
lage  homes,  city  residences;  those  who  toil  on 
plain  or  prairie,  on  hillside  and  in  the  valley; 
who  are  poor,  but  not  so  poor  as  the  broken 
hearted  mother  who  came  to  us  for  help  to-day. 

Perhaps  you  toil  and  mourn  for  the  dead ;  but 
that  is  not  dying  for  the  living!  There  are 


She  Brought  a  Skeleton.  193 

those  of  women  who  rise  early,  prepare  the 
morning  meal,  rub,  work,  scrub,  make,  mend 
and  labor,  days  and  months;  who  may  have 
rough,  coarse,  brutal  husbands,  who  only  marry 
to  gratify  passion  and  have  a  target  to  fire  their 
anger  at;  wives  who  are  neglected,  uncared  for, 
deceived,  betrayed;  who  are  compelled  by  that 
society  which  sanctions  legalized  and  solemnized 
prostitution  to  take  to  their  arms  and  bosoms 
those  they  once  swore  to  love,  warm  from  the 
passionate  embrace  of  other  loves ;  who  envy  the 
rich  and  mourn  over  their  lot,  yet  who  are  rich 
compared  to  the  mother  who  came  to  say  she  had 
lost  her  treasure. 

Have  you  a  young  husband  who  loves  you, 
who  is  true  to  you?  Then  love  him,  no  matter 
how  close  the  wolf  stands  to  your  door.  Have 
you  a  husband  who  smiles  on  you,  who  is  kind, 
and  good,  and  earnest,  and  manly,  and  true- 
hearted,  yet  who  is  not  so  rich,  or  so  gay,  or  so 

smart  as  the   husband  of   some   other   woman? 
13 


194:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Then  love  him,  and  help  him,  and  each  add,  by 
gentle  touch,  sweet  caress,  and  ready  care,  to 
happiness.  Have  you  a  friend  who  is  good,  and 
kind,  and  devoted,  and  all  in  all  to  you  as  you 
are  to  him  or  her?  Then  continue  so  till  comes 
the  mating,  and  be  happy,  for  the  little  cares 
which  annoy,  bother,  worry,  and  trouble  you,  are 
nothing  compared  to  the  skeletons  which  burden 
the  souls  of  thousands  who  would  be  happy  if 
laden  with  no  more  care  and  sorrow  than  you 
are  laden  with. 

And  have  you  work  to  do,  a  living  to  earn, 
a  destiny  to  fill  ?  Then  do  it  as  'twas  given  you ; 
bear  up  as  well  as  you  can;  think  how  many 
are  more  miserable  than  you  are,  and  if  you 
have  little  ones,  —  have  daughters  to  love  and 
care  for,  —  teach  them  aright  and  thank  God  that 
the  heart  treasures  you  would  take  over  the  river 
with  you  are  not,  by  your  neglect,  carelessness,  or 
negligence,  lost  overboard  as  food  for  the  sharks 
which  so  thickly  infest  life's  sea.  And  teach 


She  Brought  a  Skeleton.  195 

your  sons  to  be  good,  honorable,  upright;  to  be 
men  with  pluck  enough  to  defend  those  who  are 
innocent,  that  they  may  not,  from  lack  of  protec 
tion,  give  and  partake  of  other  dishes  than  those 
flavored  by  love  and  restrained  by  reason.  Then 
will  we  all  be  better  and  the  less  to  give  us 
sorrow  when  comes  to  the  week,  or  to  the  life, 
Saturday  Night. 


XXII. 

GOING  HOME.  ^ 

it  not  grand  ? 

Another  Saturday  Night— seven  leagues 
nearer  home — seven  links  nearer  beaten 
—  seven  of  His  steps  nearer  the  throne  of  love 
eternal;  most  wondrous,  grand,  and  beautiful. 
Is  it  not  grand?  This  idea  of  death.  Not 
death,  for  there  is  no  death!  But  the  sleeping 
(196) 


Going  Home.  197 

here  to  waken  there  to  the  new  and  the  eternal 
when  there  .will  be  no  more  weary  struggling, 
relying  so  much  on  our  own  efforts ;  but  lines 
and  lights,  duties  and  occupations  clearly  de 
fined.  On  being  brought  to  light  we  shall  see 
glories  in  the  East,  shall  be  advanced  to  the 
Most  High  for  instructions  and  rewards,  and 
then  shall  know  something  of  the  wonderful  so 
many  dread  to  reach. 

Death!  . 

LIFE! 

And  life  eternal !  Is  it  not  grand  to  contem 
plate  the  calling  home  and  the  removing  of  that 
which  prevents  our  seeing  into  or  of  the  future  ? 
So-called  death  is  nothing.  We  lay  aside  the 
garb  of  labor,  the  soiled  garments  worn  to 
protect  our  bodies  from  the  dirt  of  the  shop, 
and  bid  the  week  "  good-bye,"  to  enter  upon  the 
Sabbath — eternal  rest.  Who  regrets  bidding  his 
shopmates  or  fellow-laborers  "  good-night"  when 
the  work  of  the  week  is  ended  and  he  can  throw 


198  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

off  the  dirty  apron  and  go  to  meet  his  treasures 
—  the  loved  ones,  who  wait  his  coming  as  he  will 
wait  the  coming  of  others  ? 

We  take  shopmates  and  fellow-laborers  we 
love  home  with  us  to  be  with  them  while  we  rest. 
So  shall  we  take  our  loved  ones,  that  is,  our 
dearly  loved  ones,  home  with  us  to  the  Eternal 
Gardens,  where  the  flowers  that  "bloom  are  our 
good  deeds,  planted  on  earth  to  blossom  in 
Heaven.  And  who  of  us  have  planted?  Who 
of  us  are  planting?  "Who  of  us  dare  plant — 
have  pluck  to  do  right  and  plant  for  eternity  ? 

"Who  would  walk  the  Eternal  Gardens  and  see 
others  resting  under  the  shades,  enjoying  the 
delicious  perfumes  of  good  deeds  done  on  earth, 
themselves  with  never  a  tree  or  flower  to  show  ? 

Then  we  shall  see  the  glories  and  the  mys 
teries  of  the  hereafter;  shall  be  with  the  loved 
ones  who  wait  our  coming;  shall  see  and  know 
the  infinite  Power  to  whom  our  prayers  have 
been  made;  shall,  perhaps,  know  of  the  won- 


Going  Home.  199 

drous  plans  of  Him  who  is  so  far  above  us,  and 
rest  as  does  the  infant  on  its  mother's  breast,  its 
Heaven,  happy  beyond  words  in  having  reached 
the  gardens  of  God,  rather  than  being  lost  in  the 
wilderness  outside  His  beautiful  realms. 

With  Him  will  dwell  those  who  love  Him ; 
not  the  cold  and  rotten  of  heart,  who  claim  qual 
ities  they  possess  not.  With  Him  will  be  those 
who  have  faith,  hope,  love,  —  a  part  of  God  him 
self, —  in  their  hearts;  those  who  dare  to,  and 
try  to  do  right  by  all;  who  have  hearts  that 
ache,  and  eyes  that  weep  for  the  woes  of  others. 

Those  who  dread  death  are  those  who  do  not 
deserve  it;  those  who  deserve  no  release  from 
the  cares,  trials,  struggles,  betrayals  and  disap 
pointments  of  this  which  we  call,  but  which  is 
not,  life.  This  "  waiting-room,"  filled  with  those 
who  know  us  not,  who  tread  us  down  to  rush 
past  and  over  us,  is  not  Home.  We  are  simply 
passengers,  waiting  here  in  the  smoke,  dirt,  dust, 
profanity,  and  wickedness  of  life  for  the  arrival 


200  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

of  the  coach  which  is  to  take  us  Home !  And 
there  we  shall  find  our  friends,  and  generous 
welcome.  Those  who  are  going  to  their  loved 
ones  are  happy.  Those  who  are  going  to 
prison,  and  who  go  they  know  not  where,  go 
simply  because  they  can  no  longer  stay.  God 
pity  them,  for  they  need  pity ! 

The  only  thing  is  this  :  What  will  they  say  of 
ns  when  others  fill  our  places  ?  "What  will  those 
who  join  in,  look  at,  or  hear  of  our  funeral  and 
burial  say?  Will  we  be  missed,  or  will  our 
going  be  like  the  wind  which  passes,  is  gone,  and 
no  one  cares  whither  ?  God  grant  that  they  say 
of  us  all  more  of  good  than  they  are  called  to 
forget  and  forgive  of  the  bad.  And  may  we, 
when  going  home,  leave  no  memory  of  wrong, 
of  neglect,  of  sharp,  bitter  words,  of  unkindness, 
or  good  deeds  we  might  have  done,  omitted ;  for 
after  we  have  gone  home  there  will  be  no  return 
ing, — no  renewal  of  labor  or  another  week  to 
improve  on  or  correct  the  errors  of  this.  Give 


Going    Home.  201 

us  all  hearts  to  do  right ;  to  speak  well  of  those 
we  know  not  of,  or  know  to  be  good.  Give  us, 
who  have  opportunities  to  do  good,  a  heart  to 
heed  and  an  eye  to  see  wherein  our  duty  and  our 
true  happiness  lies,  that  dying  or  going  home, 
our  thoughts  may  be  of  love  and  faith  rather 
than  of  dread  and  soul-piercing  regrets. 

Little  by  little,  we  mount  upward,  step  after 
step.  Little  by  little  we  win  victories ;  here  a 
triumph,  there  another.  Little  by  little  we  win 
love,  and  prove  our  manhood.  Little  by  little 
we  earn  and  build  around  us  till  the  waste 
becomes  fertile,  the  new  home  an  old  one,  the 
cabin  a  cottage,  the  cottage  a  home,  where  are  our 
earthly  treasures  of  the  heart.  Working-man  and 
brother,  do  you  think?  Waiting  wife,  toiling 
mother  or  hopeful  betrothed,  little  by  little  your 
words  mellow  the  heart  and  win  him  to  you. 
Working  boy,  who  now  bends  to  poverty's  burden 
as  we  have  so  oft,  in  the  years  agone,  little  by 
little  the  shadows  come  upon  us,  the  flowers 


202 


Our  Saturday  Nights. 


bloom,  the  fruit  ripens,  the  earnest  endeavor 
wins  success,  and  you  mount  to  the  higher  plane 
of  true  manhood,  as  you  are  true,  earnest,  honest, 
industrious,  and  deserving  of  love,  of  fame,  or 
position,  as  all  who  labor  are  deserving  rest  and 
reward  when  comes  Saturday  Night. 


XXIII. 

SOLILOQUY  OF   A  HAPPY  MAN. 

t 

the  prime  of    life   and  happy  as  the 

day  is  long.  How  few  there  are  who 
^w  can  say  as  much.  Those  who  cannot 
I  pity.  I  envy  no  man,  for  I  am  happy.  I 
have  health  and  am  contented.  It  is  true  I. 
own  no  palace,  no  carriage;  no  great  wealth 
to  bother  me,  and  annoy  with  unceasing  care; 

yet  I  am  very  happy  for  all. 

(203; 


204:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

I  have  worked  like  a  man.  When  I  could  not 
do  better  I  was  content  with  doing  well.  When 
I  had  health  I  preserved  it,  and  when  in  need  of 
money  earned  it.  While  others  dissipated  I 
rested,  and  gained  strength  for  the  cares,  duties, 
and  labors  of  the  morrow. 

The  days  came,  some  bright  and  some 
cloudy ;  but  they  were  no  worse  to  me  than 
others,  nor  were  all  the  beauties  for  me  alone.  I 
did  not  expect  too  much ;  then  I  was  not  disap 
pointed.  The  weeks  came  and  went,  but  did  not 
rob  me  of  my  manhood.  I  spent  no  hours  in  re 
pining.  Throwing  dirt  against  a  window  you 
cannot  see  through  will  not  remedy  the  defect  of 
vision,  or  make  the  view  more  clear. 

I  have  a  home,  and  some  one  to  love  me  as  I 
do  her.  And  my  home  is  the  happiest  in  all  the 
world.  We  try  to  make  it  so.  She  and  I  try, 
and  we  never  weary.  Years  ago  I  told  her  I 
loved  her.  And  I  did  love  her.  And  she  loved 
me.  Our  years  were  fewer  than  now.  When 


Soliloquy  of  a  Happy  Man.          205 

we  plighted  troth,  and  when  we  knelt  before  the 
altar,  I  took  her  to  my  heart,  as  she  took  me  to 
hers.  And  I  have  tried  to  be  good.  When  I 
did  not  wish  to  fall  or  stumble,  I  kept  away  from 
temptation,  and  thus  lost  all  desire  to  walk  in 
dangerous  places.  Being  a  man,  it  was  my  duty 
to  provide  a  home  and  strive  to  adorn  it.  Little 
by  little,  as  I  gained  the  means,  have  I  done  so, 
till,  from  the  desert  of  life,  has  sprung  a  loved 
place  of  rest,  and  here  we  live  in,  by,  and  for 
each  other. 

Sometimes  little  clouds  come  up ;  but  we  look 
not  upon  them  and  they  soon  go.  Sometimes  I 
am  sick,  tired,  weary.  Then  she  loves  me  even 
more  tenderly,  holds  my  aching  head  to  her 
heart,  presses  the  hair  back  from  my  brow,  kisses 
me"  so  sweetly !  and  my  troubles  sink  into  the 
fading  fog  of  the  past  under  her  loving,  caressing, 
and  gentle  touch.  She  whom  I  love  is  very, 
very  good  to  me,  and  I  could  not  be  otherwise  to 
her  and  be  a  man. 


206  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

We  share  our  joys  and  sorrows.  We  strive  to 
p]ease  each  other,  and  pay  little  attention  to  the 
words  of  others,  and  thus  secure  happiness.  And 
when  she  is  tired  and  sick,  then  it  makes  my 
heart  large  to  help  her,  to  pet  her,  to  love  and 
care  for  her.  Then  her  heart  is  at  rest,  her  mind 
at  ease:  she  says  the  look  of  my  eyes  is  more 
than  medicine,  and  tlio  gentle  touch  of  love  more 
than  all  the  world  for  her  restoration. 

We  are  not  ashamed  to  love  each  other.  This 
we  promised.  We  are  not  ashamed  if  others 
know  it.  God  keep  our  hearts  thus  mated,  and 
who  shall  say  "  nay "  ?  We  live  for  eacli  other. 
We  live  in  the  house  wre  live  in,  and  not  in  the 
one  across  the  way !  We  are  happy  because  we 
strive  to  be.  We  love  each  other  because  we 
have  so  promised.  We  care  for  each  other,  for 
thus  is  that  love  which  grows  and  blesses  us 
watered  and  invigorated.  I  want  none  of  that 
which  is  forbidden,  for  it  brings  no  good  or  hap 
piness,  and  I'd  rather  keep  unsullied  the  man- 


Soliloquy  of  a  Happy  Man.  207 

hood  which  wins  and  retains  the  love  of  the  pure, 
loving,  trusting  heart  I  am  so  happy  in  keeping. 

And  days  I  work  for  her  —  for  us  —  for  our 
home.  And  nights  I  rest.  We  sit  by  the  same 
fire,  quaff  from  the  same  cup,  read  by  the 
same  light,  read  each  other's  eyes;  and  when 
that  irresistible  impulse  calls  lip  to  lip,  and  heart 
to  heart,  not  for  the  wealth  of  kings  or  greatness 
of  empires  would  I  give  up  or  forsake  the  bower 
where  our  love  is  undisturbed,  no  matter  at 
whose  coming. 

Yes,  I  am  happy.  "VYe  are  happy.  Our  house 
is  but  small,  but  our  hearts  are  large.  She  never 
speaks  cross  to  me,  nor  I  to  her.  At  times  when 
I  write  there  comes  behind  me  a  soft  footstep ; 
I  feel  the  presence  of  a  loved  one ;  I  close  my 
eyes  to  receive  a  gentle  kiss  on  my  forehead ;  an 
arm  steals  around  my  neck ;  as  I  turn  my  head 
eyes  that  tell  so  much  meet  mine;  our  lips  meet; 
she  sits  on  a  low  chair,  with  head  resting  on 
my  lap;  my  writing  is  only  interrupted  as  I 


208  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

bend  over  at  times  to  kiss  the  eyes  and  lips  of 
her  who  is  resting,  and  we  are  very,  very  happy. 
And  sometimes,  when  I  am  tired  and  weary,  it 
is  my  head  that  rests  in  her  lap.  She  works  and 
talks  to  me,  or  reads  while  I  toy  with  her  hand, 
listen,  half  dreamingly,  to  her  voice,  and  wonder 
how  many  years  God  will  give  us  thus  to  love 
each  other  on  earth  before  we  are  called  home. 
Then  we  talk  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  fu 
ture.  And  we,  while  thus  resting,  unreel  the  rib 
bon  of  the  past  to  find  but  few  spots  other  than 
of  beauty  thereon.  And  when  we  find  such  a 
spot,  we  write  "repentance"  across  it,  that  when 
God  sees  it  lie  may  know  we  have  suffered  and 
sorrowed  and  tried  to  atone  for  the  makin^  it. 

o 

Then  we  feel  happier.  Then  we  rest  sweeter  in 
each  other's  hearts,  and  for  fear  I  may  die  and 
leave  her  to  battle  on  alone,  I  plan  to-day  and 
work  to-morrow  for  her  protection  after  I  am 
gone,  if  it  is  for  me  to  prepare  a  place  for  her  in 
the  eternal  land. 


Soliloquy  of  a  Happy  Man.  209 

Perhaps  you  do  not  like  this,  my  writing,  but  I 
do  not  care.  We  are  happy.  Even  now  her 
head  rests  under  my  left  hand,  and  since  the  first 
word  of  this  paragraph  my  lips  have  rested  on 
hers.  And  we  find  our  happiness  in  pleasing 
each  other,  and  with  this  happiness  eomes 
strength  to  do  what  others  fail  in. 

And  when  comes  the  hour  for  labor  on  the 
morrow,  we  shall  there  be  found.  And  such 
duties  as  the  day  may  bring  we  will  be  ready 
for.  And  we'll  try  each  to  do  our  duty  well. 
And  when  comes  the  morrow  night,  at  home 
will  we  rest,  for  this  is  the  secret  of  happiness. 
Others  may  dissipate  and  wander  for  the  bit 
ter-sweet;  we  are  content  to  live  as  God  in 
tended.  And  we  are  not  envious,  for  in  time 
will  come  the  luxuries  of  life,  but  they  will 
not  add  to  our  happiness. 

Yes,  I  am  happy ;  for  I  try  to  be.  I 
strive  to  live  for  some  good.  I  use  only  kind 
words.  I  try  to  benefit  others,  and  have  the 


210  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

manhood  to  do  that  which  1  deem  a  duty. 
And  this  course  brings  and  retains  the  respect 
of  the  good.  It  gives  me  the  love  and  confi 
dence  of  my  friends ;  and  those  who  are  not,  it 
is  not  worth  while  to  strive  to  please.  And  as 
I  am  happy,  so  can  others  be  if  they  will,  even 
if  they  are,  like  me,  simple  laborers,  taking  care 
to  avoid  paths  which  lead  to  temptation,  and 
not  afraid  or  ashamed  to  be  men  for  the  pres 
ervation  of  that  manhood  which  no  poverty 
can  wrest  from  us,  if  we  respect  ourselves,  and 
which  gives  us  strength  to  work  the  days  of 
the  week,  and  a  relish  for  rest,  with  work 
well  done,  when  comes  the  Saturday  Night. 


XXIV. 

YERT  LONELY. 

more!     Another   Saturday  Wight! 
Again    has    the    raven    borne    its    load 

o 

of  seven  bundles  back  to  the  shelves 
of  the  past,  to  be  entombed  till  the  final  set 
tling!  Another  weekly  volume  bound  and 
laid  away, —  each  of  the  seven  chapters  the 
book  contains  sealed  forever.  ISTo  matter 

(211) 


212  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

how  many  blots  or  wrong  figures,  we  cannot 
open  the  volume  to  erase  or  change  —  the 
record  is  complete  so  far. 

Our  past  is  His  present!  It  is  His  safe 
wherein  is  locked,  beyond  the  reach  of  our 
opening  or  genius  of  our  keys,  life  records  to 
be  looked  at  whenever  He  wills.  And  lie 
calls  us  to  settlement,  whether  we  are  ready 
or  no.  Oh!  that  none  but  good  records  were 
against  all  of  us! 

But  no  more  of  this  to-night.  It  is  not  of 
the  past,  and  yet  it  is.  All  the  week  we  have 
toiled  with  brain  and  hand,  till  head  and 
body  be  weary.  But  now  we  can  rest,  and 
lift  from  the  cooling  spring  of  memory 
beadlets  strung  with  pearl  drops,  wherein 
and  whereon  are  beautiful  pictures.  We  see 
a  thousand  faces  thus.  Faces  of  those  who 
little  think  we  see  them.  We  hear  the  laugh, 
the  voices  of  friends,  as  we  shape  the  pearls 
thus  drawn  out  together;  we  feel  the  earnest 


Very  Lonely.  213 

grasp  of  heart-warmed  hands,  and  live  over 
again  the  years  that  are  lost,  as  a  traveller 
would  retrace  his  steps,  and  stop  only  at  the 
most  beautiful  places  he  visited  in  the  years 
afled. 

And  as  we  look  these  scenes  over,  we  feel 
lonely  to-night.  No  one  in  the  room  save 
ourself  and  the  unseen  spirits  which  fill  the 
air,  and  which  come  and  go  at  our  heart- 
stilled  bidding.  The  white  dial  of  the  watch 
before  us  seems  to-night  so  much  like  a  face 
we  know:  often  have  our  eyes  rested  thereon. 
We  listen  to  the  "think-quick — think-quick" 
of  the  heart-work  of  this  little  mechanism, 

and  cannot  half  think. 

.•••••• 

All  gone! 

The  loved  guests  we  had  with  us  have 
gone.  There  were  spirits  of  those  who  have 
crossed  the  river  before  us,  —  and  the  spirits 
of  those  who  to-night  are  dreaming.  For  do 


214:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

you  not  know  that  when  we  sleep  our  souls 
journey.  Sometimes  to  lands  we  know  not 
of  as  we  live.  Sometimes  to  greet  spirits 
over  yonder!  Sometimes  wandering  with 
spirits  from  over  there!  And  sometimes  we 
wander  among  old  scenes  known  before  we 
became  of  earth,  as  in  the  future  state  we 
will  roam  the  aisles  of  the  past,  which  is  our 
present.  When  we  sleep,  school  is  out,  and 
spirits  play!  And  sometimes  we  sleep  while 
awake,  —  and  start,  we  know  not  why!  It  is 
only  the  spirit  —  the  soul,  which  has  been 
playing  truant,  visiting  miles  away  —  returned 
to  its  penance! 

When  the  old  house  is  worn  out  we  move 
into  another  one !  And  this  is  all  there  is 
of  death.  And  were  it  not  that  all  we  love 
cannot  go  at  the  same  time  with  us  to  the 
new  home,  we  would  not  care  how  quick  the 
old  house  might  fall. 

...     At    times  we   feel   sad    and    lonely. 


Very  Lonely.  215 

"Waves  run  not  smooth  like  placid  water,  nor 
does  life.  It  may  "over  yonder,"  and  this 
is  our  hope,  our  full  faith. 

But  to-night  we  miss  somebody.  Our 
thoughts  are  with  some  one  else.  The  room 
seems  very  still.  Never  so  still  before.  We 
long  to  ~be  there,  —  to  be  away  from  here ;  to 
look  into  certain  eyes  adown  whose  depths 
are  traced  characters  others  cannot,  but  which 
we  can  read.  We  wrould  feel  the  soft,  sweet 
breath  of  some  one;  we  wait  the  pen  for  a 
hand  to  touch  ours,  for  loved  fingers  to  rest 
as  before  on  our  almost  bursting  temples; 
but  alas !  the  eyes  are  not  before  us  only 
as  they  glide  with  the  pen  point  across  the 
paper  on  which  we  write!  And  the  dear 
fingers  will  not  still  the  throbs  which  pain 
us.  The  sweet  lips  we  have  so  often  pressed 
the  very  soul  upon  and  into  will  not  come 
to  us  to-night,  nor  can  we  feel  the  throbbing 
of  that  heart  wherein  we  know  our  image 


216  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

is  enshrined  as  an  emerald  is  surrounded  by 
diamonds  pure  and  of  wonderous  lustre. 

Did  you  ever  wish  somebody  with  you 
when  miles  were  holding  hands,  not  hearts, 
apart?  Did  you  who  read  these  lines  ever 
feel  so  hungry  because  some  one  more  than 
loved  was  not  with  you?  Did  you  ever  pace 
the  floor,  press  against  the  pane,  listen  to 
footsteps,  grow  heartsick  over  an  absent  one, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  you  must  go  somewhere, 
anywhere?  Did  you  ever  grow  faint  and 
weary  of  life  in  knowing  that  somebody,  no 
matter  who,  were  away,  and  you  just  dying 
for  their  presence? 

"When  the  work  of  the  day  is  ended,  then 
we  want  rest.  ISTot  alone  the  easy  chair,  the 
yielding  sofa;  not  one  of  your  hard,  stiff, 
quakerish  contrivances,  but  a  comfort;  not 
alone  the  carpeted  floor  and  pictured  walls, — 
that  which  gives  rest  to  eye  and  body,  —  but 
we  want  rest  for  the  heart.  Basking  in  tlio 


Very  Lonely.  217 

sunshine  of  love.  Loved  lips,  speaking  eyes, 
gentle  hands,  kind  words,  generous  kisses 
given  by  pure,  sweet,  unstained,  unpolluted 
lips.  This  is  rest.  To  know  that  some  one, 
no  matter  who,  —  and  yet  it  does  matter, — 
is  with  you,  by  you,  of  you,  for  you,  to  you, 
pure,  good,  loving,  gentle-hearted,  is  the  hea 
ven  of  this  life,  as  God  is  of  the  next. 

But  to-night  we  are  alone;  yet  not  alone. 
The  words  she  said,  the  kisses  she  gave  us, 
the  caresses  none  can  rob  us  of ;  the  plans, 
and  hopes,  and  promises,  and  darings  of  and 
confidence  in  the  future, —  all  these  are  with 
us.  Like  gauze  -over  choice  paintings,  so  does 
her  love  keep  from  us  that  which  mars  and 
weakens. 

Pretty  soon!  Before  many  days  or  weeks! 
We  shall  meet  again.  Very  soon  in  dreams. 
"We  will  find  her  when  the  body  is  at  rest. 
We  will  not  be  lonely  then,  for  long  before 
morning  we  will  be  more  than  a  hundred 


218  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

leagues  away,  and  whither  we  go  we  will  not 
tell! 

And  some  day! 

Thank  God  for  that!  Then  we  who  work 
can  rest.  If  we  save  we  shall  enjoy!  If  we 
are  good  we  shall  be  happy;  that  is,  happier 
than  if  wre  are  not.  And  we  can  work  for 
others,  can  speak  kind  words  for  those  who 
toil,  and  suffer,  and  sorrow,  and  hope,  and  wait, 
and  with  brave,  patient,  trusting  hearts,  sit  on 
the  shore  of  the  inrolling  sea,  waiting  for  the 
golden  ship  and  the  calm  which  settles  on  the 
waves  to  still  them.  God  bless  those  we  love, 
all  whom  we  work  for,  and  keep  all  from 
the  perib  of  this  and  every  Saturday  Night. 


XXY. 

ABOUT  OUR  NEIGHBOR. 

ATUKDAY    NIGHT    of    last    week 
our    neighbor    lived    beside    us,    in    a 
little    home    all     his    own.      "We    have 
chatted    with    him   by    the    hour.      Where    he 
came  from  we  do  not  know.     He  was  a  good 
fellow;  we  liked  him,  and  never  thought  to  ask 

where   he   came    from.     When   came   Saturday 

(219) 


220  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Night,  he  would  come  to  our  little  study  and 
talk  with  us,  sometimes  half  an  hour. 

Then  he  would  go  home  to  his  dear  ones  of 
the  heart,  and  love  them,  and  kiss  them,  and 
pet  them,  and  romp  with  them.  His  wife  al 
ways  seemed  so  happy;  her  eyes,  dark  and 
beautiful,  ran  over  with  love,  and  when  his  name 
was  mentioned,  would  sparkle  as  her  heart 
danced  to  the  joyful  tune,  "  My  darling  is  he, 
and  all  mine  own." 

Sometimes  we  could  hear  them  reading  to  each 

O 

other.  Once  we  saw  him  reading  by  her  side  as 
she  sat  rocking  to  sleep  a  dear  little  one  in  her 
arms.  He  read  from  a  book,  and  as  he  read  one 
hand  rested  carelessly,  but  speaking  volumes,  on 
one  of  hers,  inspiring  him  with  the  good. 
Then  we  saw  through  the  broken  blind,  as  we 
stood  against  the  fence  watching,  that  she 
stopped  her  rocking,  looked  tenderly  upon  the 
face  of  her  sleeping  babe,  and  then  upon  the 
loved  and  manly  form  beside  her.  Their  eyes 


About  OUT  Neighbors.  221 

met.  He  closed  the  book,  and  drew  his  chair 
still  nearer — rested  his  head  on  her  bosom 
beside  the  face  of  the  little  sleeper,  with  his 
face  upturned.  She  looked  upon  her  treasures 
a  moment;  a  tear  fell  from  her  eyes;  their  lips 
met  and  drank  from  the  luscious  joy  and  happy 
fulness  of  the  heart. 

They  were  happy;  and  we  mused  in  our  room 
an  hour,  disturbed  at  last  by  the  walk  of  a 
drunken  man  going  to  his  home. 

Ours  was  a  good  neighbor.  He  minded 
his  own  business.  He  spoke  but  kind  words. 
He  worked  in  a  blacksmith-shop.  His  hands 
were  very  hard,  and  his  muscles!  How  we 
envied  him  this  overplus  of  strength.  What  he 
had  he  earned,  and  what  he  earned  he 
saved  to  beautify  his  home.  He  was  not  stingy 
nor  miserly.  He  gave  dimes  to  poor  children, 
and  was  for  his  little  ones  a  God-given  play 
thing,  dearer  to  them  than  all  the  toys  in  the 
world.  He  left  his  care  in  the  shop;  took  his 


222  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

heart  home,  hung  his  dignity  with  his  coat  on 
a  hook,  and  lived  for  the  ones  he  loved.  And 
that  is  the  way  to  live.  Why  bother  to  please 
those  who  care  not  for  you? 

This  Saturday  our  neighbor  moved  away. 
We  knew  he  was  intending  to  go  soon.  He 
told  us  months  ago  that  a  man  was  building  a 
new  house  and  a  better  one  for  him  over  the 
river,  on  a  neat,  clean,  wide  street!  He  said 
he  was  going  there  to  live,  and  to  earn  better 
wages  in  another  shop.  And  he  said  his  loved 
ones  would  be  nearer.  We  told  him,  years  ago, 
if  he  wanted  a  better  place  to  work  in,  and 
a  better  house  to  live  in,  and  better  times  gen 
erally,  it  lay  in  his  power  to  obtain  them.  And 
he  worked,  and  saved,  and  kept  his  manhood  pure 
and  unweakened  by  excess  or  dissipation.  He 
wanted  to  have  a  better  home,  and  he  saved 
his  earnings  till  at  last  he  could  have  a  better 
one. 


About  Our  Neighbors.  223 

"We  don't  know  as  yet  where  it  is,  but  are  to 
go  over  the  river  in  a  few  days  and  will  find  him. 
"We  have  the  directions.  "We  know  who  he  went 
to  work  for.  A  very  liberal  employer,  who  em 
ploys  none  but  the  best  and  most  deserving  work 
men  !  And  His  work  is  always  perfect.  -"We 
know  where  to  find  our  neighbor  when  we  go 
over  there,  and  shall  be  glad  to  meet  him.  A 
wagon  came  and  took  him  away.  And  it  took 
all  he  had  ever  earned.  The  good  man  sent 
the  wagon,  but  we  did  not  know  who  drove  it. 

It  is  a  little  lonesome  now,  for  our  neighbor 
has  moved.  We  look  at  the  little  worn-out  house 
he  left,  and  look  ahead  with  joy  to  the  time  when 
we  shall  leave  our  little  house  for  a  better  one 
over  where  he  has  gone.  "We  know  where  he  has 
gone,  for  all  these  years  he  has  been  wishing  to 
be  there  —  to  better  himself  when  he  moved ;  and 
as  he  has  laid  up  something  and  proved  himself 
a  good  workman,  he  would  not  go  into  a  poorer 


224:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

house,  or  work  for  a  poorer  employer  than  he  had 
on  this  side  the  river. 

This  house  where  our  neighbor  lived  is  empty. 
It  is  to  be  torn  down  in  a  few  weeks,  and  the 
material  all  carried  away.  But  our  neighbor  has 
gone  to  a  better  house,  for  he  was  a  good  and  a 

deserving  man. 

«          •          •          •        •          •          •• 

Our  neighbor  has  gone! 

We  did  not  see  him  go.  But  to-day  we  saw  a 
span  of  horses  drawing  his  house  away!  His 
house  was  in  a  long  affair  used  for  moving  such 
houses.  It  was  moved  away  for  the  reason  that 
our  neighbor  had  got  through  with  it — gone  to 
his  beautiful  home  over  the  river,  where  the 
smiles  of  God  tint  the  flowers  of  the  eternal,  and 
where  all  is*  love,  kindness,  and  that  perfection 
unknown  here. 

We  shall  not  weep  over  the  house  our  neighbor 
—  our  good  friend  —  moved  from,  for  that  will 
do  no  good.  To  be  sure,  it  is  lonesome  without 


About  Our  Neighbors.  225 

him,  but  we  know  where  to  find  him.  The  other 
day  a  man  moved  away,  but  we  know  not  where 
he  went  to.  lie  had  no  steady  employment 
when  he  lived  by  us.  He  worked  for  almost  any 
ene,  but  he  was  not  a  good  workman,  and  could 
find  no  employment  over  there!  He  worked 
mostly  for  himself,  and  people  took  but  little 
interest  in  him.  He  had  some  friends,  but  they 
lived  all  about  in  bad  places,  and  we  think  he 
has  gone  to  find  them.  We  are  sorry  we  did 
not  go  over  the  river,  but  cannot  help  it. 

And  before  long  we  shall  go  to  meet  our 
friend.  And  he  will  introduce  us  to  the  other 
workmen,  and  indorse  us;  and  we  shall  all  be 
friends  at  once,  and  be  with  those  who  are  there 
paid  hourly  and  not  compelled  to  wait  till  the 
coming  of  Saturday  Night. 
15 


XXYI. 

PLAIN  WORDS  TO    THOSE  WE  LOVE  ABOUT  OUR 
HOME. 


made  it. 

A  home.     Not  a  palace  full  of  unused 
rooms,    strange   echoes,   deserted   cham 
bers,  hollow  sounds,  musty  smells,  and  horrible- 
patterned  carpets ;  but  a  neat,  cosy  home,  where 

we  live  every  day,  happy  in  what  we  have,  en- 

(226) 


Plain  Words  about  our  Home.        227 

vious  of  no  one,  caring  for  our  real  wants,  and 
giving  no  hospitality  to  imaginary  ones. 

A  few  years  since  we  began  without  a  dollar. 
One  night  our  palms  rested  in  each  other,  our 
lips  met  as  never  before,  we  promised  earnestly 
and  faithfully;  have  kept  vows  deeply  graven 
on  our  hearts. 

Then  we  started  out  on  the  voyage  of  united 
love.  The  great  sea  sang  murmuring  at  our 
feet.  Its  distance  was  flecked  with  tiny  sails. 
There  were  icebergs  and  green  isles  in  the  dis 
tance,  but  none  near  the  velvet  shores !  Is  it 
thus  to  tempt  people?  So  or  not  so,  those  who 
look  beyond  the  reach  of  momentary  vision  can 
see  open  sailing, — that  icebergs  can  be  missed 
and  the  green  isles  far  out  yonder  be  reached. 

But  not  except  those  who  sail  the  craft  be  of 
one  mind !  Let  both  steer  for  the  same  port 
and  channel:  it  will  be  reached.  But,  alas! 
too  many  sail  on,  wrapped  only  in  the  present 
squandering  of  the  future,  and  soon  put  back  for 


228  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

another  craft  or  float  on  the  surf  that  throws 
and  dashes  and  spatters  itself  in  mockery  over 
the  rock-ribbed  shore,  not  harder  than  the  com 
posite  of  error  on  which  many  a  frail  bark  is 
stranded. 

There  is  much  in  mating.  There  is  much 
more  in  not  overloading  the  craft.  There  is 
mucn  in  not  taking  too  many  passengers  with 
you ;  and  there  is  much  in  working  the  ship 
together,  and  very  much  in  not  giving  to  others 
the  delicacies  which  never  outlast  the  voyage 
except  used  only  by  those  who  put  them  up  for 
their  own  use! 

But  no  more   of  the  sea:   we  must  not  float 

So  far  from  the  Shore  — 

So  far  from  our  Home — 

So  far  from  our  Love  — 

So  far  from  our  Duty — 

So  far  from  our  Happiness — 

So  far  from  Ourselves! 


Plain  Words  about  our  Home.        229 

How  did  we  win  this  home  ? 

Little  by  little.  Thanking  God  for  yesterday, 
for  to-day,  for  to-morrow ;  for  hope  and  for 
pluck.  It  did  seem  hard  to  begin  from  npthing 
years  ago,  but  we  thus  begun.  "We  decided  to 
fit  our  craft  for  a  long  voyage,  in  hope  to  visit 
very  many  of  the  distant  isles.  So  we  saved. 
What  was  earned  by  the  plow,  the  spade,  the 
scythe,  the  axe,  the  pick,  the  labor  of  hands, 
was  saved ;  not  to  be  hoarded,  but  to  be  spent. 

The  money  earned  in  the  shop  by  the  forge 
fire  did  not  fioat  off  in  steam  like  the  water  put 
on  burning  coal;  it  did  not  thin  off  into  shav 
ings  fit  only  to  kindle  desires;  it  did  not  drop 
into  the  pile  of  cloth  scraps,  leather  bits,  and 
waxed  ends ;  we  did  not  leave  it  fastened  to 
the  cup  of  dissipation,  nor  invest  it  in  weeds 
to  grow  up  and  choke  our  manhood. 

It  was  saved  for  the  good  it  might  do ;  was 
paid  to  those  who  built  our  home,  and  those  who 
in  a  thousand  other  places  were  working  to  make 


230  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

this  and  that  of  the  useful  and  beautiful,  to  be 
purchased,  paid  for,  and  enjoyed  by  all  who 
would  or  will  make  home  attractive. 

Is  it  not  wonderful  how  working-men,  help 
each  other?  And  how  little  we  do  for  those 
who  made  all  these  beautiful  things  for  us!  — 
these  carpets,  chairs,  tables,  pictures,  glass,  and 
frames ;  the  house  we  live  in,  the  stove  we  cook 
upon,  the  bed  we  sleep  on,  the  food  we  eat,  the 
clothes  we  wear,  the  dishes  we  use,  the  medicines 
we  take,  the  piano  we  listen  to,  the  jewelry  our 
loved  wears,  the  books  and  papers  we  read; 
the  pen  we  use,  the  ink  we  are  wasting,  the 
watch  which  tells  us  of  the  hour,  the  curtains 
which  exclude  the  glance  of  eyes  outside  as 
we  sit  writing,  stopping  only  to  pet,  and  kiss, 
and  love  the  dearest  one  on  earth,— who  says 
she  cannot  help  loving  us ! 

Why !  If  all  the  men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls,  who  had  worked  on  the  articles  in  our 
home  should  call  to-night;  who  would— who 


Plain  Words  about  our  Home.        231 

could  care  for  our  guests  ?  They  would  be  here 
by  the  thousand !  Verily,  the  idea,  the  truth  of 
our  own  littleness,  as  we  have  to  think  of  how 
little  account  we  are  to  others,  and  how  many 
others  work  for  us,  is  enough  to  drown  the  soul 
into  its  own  shrinkage! 

But  it  is  not  of  this  —  but  our  home. 

When  night  conies,  here  we  rest  to  gather 
strength  and  grow  heart-mellow  in  love.  Here 
we  have  a  castle  a  king  might  envy,  all  won  by 
honest  toil.  The  rooms  are  always  so  neat  and 
in  order.  The  bedclothes  clean,  the  sweeter  to 
rest  for  the  better  health  for  the  morrow.  We 
have  not  so  much  as  one  cross  word  in  all  the 
year.  We  care  not  what  others  say  of  us,  for 
the  sun  of  happiness  draws  its  warmth,  not  from 
what  others  say  or  do,  but  what  we  do  or  think 
of  ourselves. 

When  our  friends  come  they  are  very  wel 
come.  Little  or  much  that  we  have,  they  are 
indeed  welcome.  We  never  fix  up  for  anybody; 


232  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

but  keep  fixed  up,  as  good  wives  say,  for 
ourselves.  Then  we  are  never  surprised.  If 
people  come  to  see  us  they  are  welcome.  If 
they  come  to  feast  on  fat  things,  they  can  have 
no  better  than  we  have,  without  going  to  a  hotel, 
—  and  then  they  may  not.  If  we  have  a  crust, 
and  that  only,  half  is  theirs.  We  have  no 
parlor  for  them  alone,  for  it  is  all  parlor  in  our 
home;  all  as  nice  as  we  can  have  it;  we  keep 
no  room  locked,  darkened,  musty,  and  unopened 
only  at  stated  seasons,  to  show  how  foolish  we 
are  not  to  enjoy  the  good  and  comfort  of  life 
as  we  live,  while  waiting,  as  it  were,  for  the 
hearse. 

The  best  we  have -earned  is  none  too  good  for 
our  love,  who  is  the  best  of  all,  and  for  her  are 
all  these  purchased.  We  do  not  like  to  see  peo 
ple  sit  in  the  hot  sun  when  a  shade  is  close  by, 
nor  live  in  bare  rooms  in  order  to  show  people 
they  do  not  know  how  to  enjoy  parlors.  Empty 
parlors  are  but  musty  tortures :  vain  displays  of 


Plain  Words  about  our  Home.        233 

taste  used  in  too  many  instances  only  for  wed 
dings  and  funerals.  Kiglitly  kept,  they  are 
homes;  securely  locked  up,  they  are  prisons  or 
sepulchres  of  ignored  joys,  comforts,  and  happi 
ness. 

Our  home  is  our  parlor.  Our  parlor  is  our 
home.  We  labor  day  after  day.  And  as  our 
will  to  dare,  and  power  to  accomplish,  like  the 
darkness,  fades  out  before  the  coming  of  the 
great  light,  we  strive  for  the  goldening  of 
our  love,  for  the  beautifying  of  our  home 
for  the  great  preparation.  Those  who  care 
not  for  their  homes  here, — how  can  they  care 
for  them  in  the  hereafter?  The  present  is  bnt 
the  fitting  of  the  future.  As  we  strive  here  we 
are  rewarded  there.  You  need  not  tell  us  that 
we  enter  our  new  homes  as  we  came  here, — 
empty-handed  or  empty-hearted. 

"Wliat  did  Christ  say  about  the  talent  which 
was  hidden  in  a  napkin?  Pause  and  look  for 
the  meaning  of  the  simile. 


234:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

All  we  earn,  save,  or  gather  here  of  the  good, 
the  pure,  and  the  noble,  is  credited  to  us  over 
there !  If  we  care  not  for  ourselves  in  honor, 
for  others  in  love ;  if  we  toil  not  to-day  for  the 
rest  "  to-morrow,"  why  should  lie  or  others  this 
side  of  Him  care  for  us? 

We  wish  and  pray  that  more  of  our  work 
ing-men  may  have  better  homes;  that  they  may 
more  earnestly  care  for  their  earnings,  their 
lives,  their  manhood.  Those  who  do  not  are 
not  the  happy  ones.  Nor  are  their  families. 
Not  care  to  hoard,  but  to  beautify,  to  adorn,  to 
clothe,  to  educate.  The  noblest  men  in  the 
land  are  the  sons  of  working-men,  mechanics, 
laborers,  farmers,  who  have  oft  been  sneered  at 
011  account  of  their  poverty.  The  happiest 
homes  are  those  built  on  the  enduring  founda 
tion  of  honest  toil.  We  would  see  every  home 
happy.  Would  throw  open  the  musty  parlors, 
swing  the  blinds,  clear  out  the  dust  and  cob 
webs;  fill  closets  with  clothes,  libraries  with 


Plain  Words  about  our  Home.        235 

books,  cupboards  with  food,  the  home  with 
laughter  and  cheerfulness,  and  the  heart  with 
joy.  "We  would  see  the  wife  and  little  ones 
happier,  the  husband  more  contented  and  en 
couraged,  parents  more  proud  of  and  kind  to 
their  children,  children  set  good  examples  and 
taught  good  manners,  with  neatness  and  gentle 
ness. 

And  we  would  see  men  of  hearts  and  desires 
to  do  good,  stand  closer  by  each  other  and  by 
the  unfortunate,  to  protect  and  love. 

We  would  ignore  and  abolish  the  laws  which 
now  rob  the  working-man  of  hard-earned  money 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  pay  no  taxes  on 
ill-gotten  incomes ;  would  wipe  out  as  with  red- 
hot  fire  the  prohibition  which  comes  to  us 
through  Puritanism,  and  lay  the  foundation  for 
high  deeds,  noble  resolves,  great  undertakings, 
and  that  success  which  marks  our  progression  tc 
worthiness  of  future  greatness  by  the  firesides 
and  in  the  homes  of  the  working-men  of  the 


236  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

land,  who  are  our  real  and  only  princes  for  the 
present,  and  joint  heirs  for  the  future. 

"Who  of  our  friends  —  of  our  readers — of  the 
public  we  strive,  but  can  do  so  little  for — 
will  have  the  pluck  to  begin  a  new  life  and 
devote  more  time  and  more  of  his  earnings  to 
making  his  home  more  attractive  than  per 
chance  it  may  be  this  Saturday  Night. 


XXVII. 
THE  OLD  WOMAN. 

'HIS  Saturday  Night,  as  we  were  walking 
home  chatting  with  a  little  six-year-old 
girl  from  whom  we  had  bought  a  little 
bouquet,  we  saw  a  great  burly  man  run  against 
a  fruit-stand  and  upset  it.  A  few  oranges  and 
pineapples  rolled  into  the  gutter,  while  an  old, 

wrinkled,    sad-faced    woman,    with     rheumatic 

(237) 


238  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

joints,  tried  to  fix  up  the  broken  stand.  To 
say,  "  Here,  stranger !  settle  with  the  good 
woman,"  was  bnt  natural ;  but  he  blustered  on, 
only  turning  his  head  to  mutter, — 

"  Hang  your  old  woman ;  let  her  keep  out  of 
the  way ! " 

!N"ow,  this  was  all  very  independent,  for  it 
showed  that  he  who  hastened  on  was  a  man ! 
But  we  felt  like  hating  him  from  that  moment. 
A  great,  large  man,  and  so  unfeeling !  We  pity 
his  mother.  We  pity  him,  aye,  more  than  we 
did  the  old  woman  whose  fruit  we  helped  the 
little  girl  pick  up,  and  whose  broken  fruit-stand 
we  helped  fix.  He  needs  pity,  as  any  man  does 
who  has  a  brutal  heart.  And  we  pity  his  mother, 
who  would  never  have  thought  this  of  her  boy. 

Only  an  old  woman ! 

"We  do  not  like  any  person  who  does  not  show 
love  and  respect  for  the  aged  ones,  who  at  best 
can  be  with  us  but  a  little  while.  God  knows, 
the  sorrows  that  come  naturally  about  the  sun- 


The  Old  Woman.  239 

down  of  life  as  swallows  homeward  fly,  are 
more  than  we  know  of,  and  he  is  unworthy  the 
name  of  man  who  is  not  kind  to  the  aged.  No 
matter  if  they  are  at  times  cross  and  peevish. 
The  spar  which  lies  a  wreck  on  the  beach,  listen 
ing  to  the  roar  and  whisperings  of  the  ocean  it 
once  rode  upon,  has  reason  to  be  warped  and 
rough !  So  with  those  who  have  battled  in  vain 
with  life  and  grown  heart-weary  over  its  trials, 
sorrows,  and  disappointments. 

Who  was  this  old  woman? 

"We  know  not.  And  from  her  sad  face  we 
judge  none  others  know!  But  Once?  Yes, 
once  she  was  a  baby, — sweet,  smiling,  winsome. 
Then  she  was  petted  and  admired.  The  years 
came  in  turns  and  laid  their  wreaths  at  her  feet, 
and  on  them  she  stepped  to  womanhood.  Then 
her  eyes  were  bright,  her  step  elastic,  and  her 
young  heart  was  filled  with .  the  gentle  whispers 
of  that '  love  which  so  often  leads  to  but  seldom 
occupies  the  charming  castles  of  its  wondrous 


240  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

creating.  Then  she  was  not  old  nor  ugly. 
Smiles  like  bits  of  golden  sunshine  pictured  her 
face  as  lovers  gazed  thereon.  Her  hand  was 
not  skinny  as  now  when  it  rested  in  his  years 
ago,  nor  was  her  eye  filled  with  ashes  of  life  and 
love  as  now. 

Then  she  was  not  an  old  woman,  but  was  fair 
and  -  sweet,  perchance  like  the  one  the  brusque, 
brutal  man  was  going  to  visit  to-night ;  the  one 
he  too  will  abuse  if  the  years  rest  shadows  on 
her  face  and  form  till  she  becomes  an  old  woman. 
The  man  wrho  is  not  good  to  the  old  will  be  cruel 
and  spiteful  to  any  one  he  may  profess  to  love 
when  the  fantasies  of  desire  have  feasted  their 
fill ;  and  there  comes  even  a  momentary  despon 
dency  to  the  best  of  hearts. 

They  were  years  of  the  past  when  she  was 
young. .  Then  some  "  old  woman"  was  caring  for 
the  man  who  has  no  little  heart  for  the  aged. 
And  she  who  is  now  old  had  her  loves,  her 
hopes,  her  dreamings  of  the  future.  The  love- 


•  The  Old  Woman.  241 

light  came  to  and  went  from  her  eye,  as  words 
from  the  heart  of  another  called  beautiful  visions 
to  her  future  beholding.  The  cares  of  life  came 
to  her.  One  by  one  troubles  settled  round  her 
path  like  beasts  of  prey  waiting  to  spring  on 
innocent  victims.  The  hopes  of  early  years  went 
one  by  one  out,  filled  or  unfilled,  but  never  more 
to  return,  for  the  links  of  life  have  no  second 
coming. 

Companions  of  younger  days  went  to  their 
new  homes  here  or  in  the  hereafter,  leaving  the 
woman  who  is  now  old.  The  hours  of  sickness, 
the  grave  ;  thus,  one  by  one,  went  her  sunshines 
to  shades,  and  for  each  loss  or  hope  unfilled 
came  a  wrinkle,  as  time  kept  most  faithful 
account!  God  pity  her  now,  for  her  charms 
sleep  under  the  sod  of  the  terrible  past,  never 
more  to  come  to  grace  her  face  or  form  till  the 
renewal  of  all  this  in  the  beautiful  home  over 
the  river. 

The  young  live  in  the  future  ;  none  of  us,  or 
16 


242  Our  Saturday  Niglits. 

very  few,  live  in  the  present ;  the  old  live  in  the 
past,  and  their  snnset  hoars  are  more  upon  fading 
than  growing  pictures.  And  while  the  young 
array  and  look  at  the  ribbons  for  the  morrow, 
the  old  must  content  be  with  resting  eyes  on 
the  weeds  of  the  past,  and  their  hearts  on  deeds 
of  goodness  or  charity.  How  few  of  us  think  of 
the  old  people !  Cares  of  business  or  hopes  for 
pleasure  drive  them  from  our  hearts.  Perhaps  it 
wras  so  with  them  once,  yet  we  hope  it  will  not 
be  so  with  us.  It  is  up  hill  to  the  summit,  or 
down  to  the  grave,  and  the  path  down  the 
mountain  is  slower  than  the  one  going  up ! 

We  pity  the  aged.  Looking  on  their  faded 
beauty,  their  weakening  steps,  their  decrepit 
forms,  we  often  wonder  what  we  shall  do  when 
thus  we  come  to  their  milestones,  if,  so  be  it,  ours 
be  the  travel  so  far  before  comes  the  Hearing 
shore.  If  the  years  come,  the  joys  of  now  must 
go  !  It  will  not  be  always  that  we  can  be  strong 
and  earnest,  filled  with  hot  blood,  deep  desires, 


The  Old  Woman.  243 

and  an  appetite  for  the  varied  dishes  of  life, 
from  which  we,  who  are  in  the  full  flush  of 
health  and  vigor  of  maturing  years,  enjoy. 

The  touch  of  love  which  now  sends  that  wild, 
delirious  thrill  from  soul  to  soul  will  in  time  be 
less  than  now.  The  flowers  will  become  tangled 
vines  laden  with  memories,  but  devoid  of  that 
beauty  now  so  charming.  The  prizes  for  which 
we  all  grasp  will  come  and  go,  and  we  will  be 
kindly  dealt  by  in  God's  own  good  way  as  we 
have  been  kind  to  the  poor  and  the  aged  ones 
here  with  us,  but  not  long  to  stay.  Do  not  pass 
them  roughly  by.  What  was  once  all  theirs,  is 
now  all  ours  ;  or  it  will  be  soon.  And  what  is 
ours  will  some  day  belong  to  others !  Life,  nor 
riches,  nor  greatness  rests  with  us  alone  forever. 
We  drink  and  pass  the  cup !  The  train  darts  by : 
others  saw  it  before ;  they  will  after  we  have 
gazed  thereon. 

It  costs  but  little  to  be  kind  to  the  aged.  And 
kind  words  fall  on  old  hearts  like  dew  on  fading 


244  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

flowers,  bringing  anew  the  fragrance  of  the  past. 
Be  kind  to  the  aged  people,  who  toil  and  strive, 
that  they  may  not  be  burdensome.  Not  alone  to 
those  who  gave  you  bone  and  blood,  but  to  all. 
It  is  wicked  to  be  cruel  to  departing  guests,  who 
so  soon  are  going  to  more  beautiful  homes  than 
ours  here  on  earth,  where  all  are  alike  loved,  and 
where  all  find  the  rest  which  we  hope  will  be 
when  shall  coine  to  us  the  final  Saturday  Night. 


XXVIII. 

TIIE  FAMILY  EECOED. 

[ATUBDAY  NIGHT  again!  How  tlie 
weeks  come  and  go,  singly  here;  blended 
into  one  varied  past  as  they  are  called 
to  His  presence.  To-night  we  opened  the  Bible 
by  chance,  at  the  Family  Eecord.  Singular! 
Exactly  between  the  old  and  the  new ;  the  past 

and  the  coming,  so  far  as  effects  our  future. 

(245) 


246  OUT  Saturday  Nights. 

Born! 

Married ! 

Died! 

Three  words,  and  the   sum   of    life  is  told. 

Horn  —  and  who  cares  for  us  ?     Only  one  or 
two. 

Married — and  who  cares  for  us?  As  if 
there  were  more  than  one  to  answer ! 

Died — O  God!  let  us  not  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  say  they  love  us,  and  who  will  not 
forget  us,  no  matter  whether  married  or  died, 
given  or  mated,  here  or  hence.  Little  would 
there  be  of  life  did  not  some  one  love  us;  did 
we  not  think  that  some  heart  would  hold  our 
memory  sacred,  that  'way  over  the  wondrous 
river,  where  the  skies  are  brighter,  the  seasons 
more  even,  the  joys  sweeter,  would  we  find 
waiting  us,  or  stand  waiting  the  coming  of 
the  loved. 

At  best  it  is  but  a  short  stay  here.     Hardly 
long    enough    to   become    acquainted.     Merely 


The  Family  Record.  247 

an  evening  call,  and  —  good-by!  But  so  it  is 
written,  and  so  we  are  content.  No  one  escapes 
death.  We  do  not  wish  to.  It  makes  but  little 
difference  whether  we  go  at  noon  or  sundown, 
if  our  new  home  be  happy.  Without  a  doubt 
or  tremble  we  are  ready  to  go,  for  ours  is  that 
full  faith  which  has  long  since  made  the  heart 
entirely  at  rest  concerning  the  future.  When 
the  carriage  comes  we  are  ready  to  go;  mean 
while,  we  will  look  at  the  pictures,  chat  with 
our  friends,  or  put  the  house  a  little  more  in 
order  for  those  who  remain,  that  they  may 
not  be  compelled  to  do  the  work  we  might 
have  done. 

And  yet  we  do  not  care  to  go.  All  these 
beautiful  skies,  bright  stars,  trees,  hills,  rivulets, 
lakes,  flowers,  and  the  pastimes  for  humanity, 
will  remain  for  others  as  toilet  articles  are 
left  after  w^e  have  gone  to  the  party.  We  can 
part  from  the  beauty  of  this  world,  for  the 
flowers  are  over  yonder.  Buds  here,  flowers 


24:8  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

there.  And  we  shall  not  care  for  the  beauties 
we  leave  when  at  rest  over  there !  Age  puts 
away  the  toys  of  childhood,  for  they  are  no 
longer  wanted. 

But  we  had  rather  stay  than  go,  for  we  do 
not  know  who  will  care  for  our  loved  ones! 
Who  will  look  over  all  the  little  scrolls  of  paper, 
— the  letters,  memorandums,  and  keepsakes  ? 
Somebody.  And  they  will  smile  at  our  odd 
fancies,  and  wonder  why  this  little  thing  be 
here,  and  that  one  there,  saved  so  carefully. 

Little  will  they  know  the  history  each  could 
tell,  or  why  we  prized  them  to  preserve.  Never 
breeze  more  laden  with  odor  of  perfume  than 
these  little  keepsakes  are  with  memories.  "Why 
we  walk  back  to  the  distant  bank  of  the  past  on 
these  stepping-stones  in  the  stream,  others  cannot 
see ! 

And  who  will  care  for  the  ones  we  love? 
Who  will  care  for  her  who  gave  us  that  priceless 
jewel  years  ago?  Who  will  care  for  the  one 


The  Family  Record.  249 

who  for  years  lias  been  so  good,  so  pure,  so 
true,  so  kind,  so  loving  ?  This  is  the  only  real 
sting  death  has.  They  who  walk  hand  in  hand, 
palm  in  palm,  for  years  on  the  road,  cannot 
bear  to  part.  Who  will  care  for  the  one  who 
with  us,  years  ago,  stepped,  as  it  were,  behind 
the  screen,  to  weld  hearts  for  the  future  ?  For 
this  we  would  live ;  for,  the  longer  together  on 
earth,  the  less  time  to  wait  for  each  other  in 
heaven,  as  the  beautiful  home  we  are  going  to 
is  called. 

Who  will  protect  her?  Who  will  hold  her 
to  his  heart,  and  open  so  wide  the  doors  thereto 
that  she  may  enter  and  know  that  all  within  is 
hers  ?  Who  will  love  her  as  we  do  ?  Who  will 
hold  her  hand,  still  her  troubles,  look  so  truly 
and  tenderly  in  her  eyes,  as  we  feel  to?  Who 
will  bear  with  her  nervous  hours,  her  little  for- 
gettings,  her  sad  moments,  her  need  of  love,  as 
we  would?  In  all  this  great  big  world  God 
gave  us  is  not  one  we  would  give  her  to.  They 


250  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

may  take  our  houses  and  lands,  our  books,  pic 
tures,  letters,  keepsakes,  jewels,  life,  reputation, 
take  all,  for  they  are  but  things  of  oar  creation, 
prized  more  in  the  chase  than  capture;  but  God 
gave  us  to  each  other,  and  may  we  be  not  long 
parted.  She  has  been  so  good  to  us,  so  kind, 
so  true,  so  earnest.  Never  a  wrrong  has  she 
done  us,  or  falsehood  told.  "When  came  the 
stern,  to  our  heart  she  came  for  shelter.  "When 
there  was  beauty  in  the  sky,  'twas  she  who 
pointed  it  out  to  us. 

When  others  said  w^e  would  fail,  'twas  she 
who  said  we  could  not  and  would  not,  for  love 
would  sustain  us.  To  be  sure,  ours  was  but  the 
home  of  a  working-man,  but  never  did  walls 
contain  more  priceless  treasure.  "When  others 
w^ere  cold  and  cruel  in  words,  she  was  good  and 
kind.  When  others  doubted  our  purpose  or 
honor,  she  never  did, "and  thus  made  us  strong 
and  invincible. 

And  her  hand  has  soothed  our  pain,  stilled  the 


The  Family  Record.  251 

temples  wildly  throbbing;  her  eye  gone  into  the 
depths  of  that  darkness  which,  like  a  fog  of 
Hades,  at  times  envelops  the  stoutest  and  bright 
est  heart,  to  drive  it  away;  her  kiss  has  brought 
life  and  warmth  to  energies;  her  words  have  so 
often  kindled  anew  the  fires  of  hope  on  an  ash- 
covered  hearth;  her  life,  ideas,  wishes,  hopes, 
future  and  eternal  resting  have  so  woven  in  with 
ours  that  the  great  joy  of  life  brings  the  great 
sting  of  death! 

"Who  will  protect  the  one  we  so  love  then? 
It  is  the  only  agony  approaching  dissolution 
doth  bring.  Will  she  be  tempted?  Perhaps, 
for  all  are.  Will  she  fall?  No,  a  million  times 
no  !  Will  she  suffer  ?  No,  for  we  will  work 
and  save  lest  the  one  or  ones  so  dear  to  us  should 
come  to  want.  No,  we  must  not  let  her  suffer; 
we  will  guard  against  that,  and  if  she  be  good 
and  not  selfish,  this  care  will  make  her  love  us 
the  more.  And  herein  confess  we  to  tenfold 
selfishness!  But  we  cannot  help  it. 


252  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

And  so  we  work,  and   love,  and  labor,  and 
look  to  the  future  that  we  may  not  leave  her, 
the  best  loved  of  all,  to  suffer,  to  mourn  when 
we  are  sleeping  undisturbed,  visited  only  by  her; 
she  may  be  cared  for,  wrapped  and  safe  in  the 
mantle  woven  by  our  hands  while  on  earth.     We 
will  earn  a  home.     Will  not  lose  it  in  dissipa 
tion.     Will   not  tarnish   our    love    for  her    by 
contact  with   all;    will  not   spoil   the   beautiful 
dinner  she  is  ever  preparing  for  us   alone,  by 
partaking  of  here  a  little  and  there  a  little  as 
homeward   we    journey.     He   who    truly    loves 
knows   what    this  means,   and    it    means   more 
than  it  contains  words. 

The  winds  might  blow  very,  very  cold  on  her, 
and  who  would  wrap  the  mantle  of  true  love 
about  her;  for  who  would  know  her  worth  as 
do  we?  And  we  know  her  heart  would  go 
down  like  lead  into  the  waters  of  bitterness 
when  came  the  hour  which  said,  "]STo  more  can 
ho  come."  Others  might  be  good  to  her,  and 


The  Family  Reeord.  253 

kind,  and  gentle.  But  what  is  their  "good"  to 
our  love,  their  "kind"  to  our  adoration,  their 
"gentle"  to  our  worship?  And  there  are  others 
who  would  mourn  as  we  would,  should  they  go 
down  before  us,  but  these  could  live  and  love, 
comforted  in  their  loves,  which  would  absorb 
grief  even  for  the  dearest  friends. 

And  we  should  feel  so  sad  and  heartsore  to 
think  we  must  die  or  go  home  without  having 
all  the  unkind  words  we  may  have  hastily 
spoken,  forgiven.  Oh,  how  the  memory  of 
unkind  words  lives  in  the  heart!  Let  us  not 
speak  them  to  the  ones  we  lover  Let  us  be 
better,  more  kind  and  gentle,  bearing  with 
each  other,  for  none  are  quite  perfect,  none 
except  our  loves.  And  if  they  are,  we  must 
not  speak  unkindly;  if  they  are  not,  we  must 
forgive  them !  Our  homes  may  not  be  palaces ; 
we  may  be  children  of  toil;  but  we  can  have 
palaces  in  our  hearts,  and  live  happier  than 
we  do  if  we  but  strive  aright,  for  he  who  wins 


254:  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

by  earnest  striving  best  knows   and  enjoys  the 
reward. 

We  will  strive,  if  we  are  poor.  We  will  be 
a  man,  no  matter  how  soon  we  may  go  or  how 
long  we  may  stay.  "We  will  do  by  her  as  we 
promised  in  the  years  of  the  past,  when,  speaking 
by  the  card  of  ordainment,  each  soul  said,  "  I 
have  found  it ! "  And  as  wre  thus  care  for  her 
will  she  love  us,  and  we  will  save  our  own 
respect.  And  thus  we  can  do  good,  can  be  of 
use,  can  more  enjoy  the  beauty  of  life,  and 
when  our  name  is  placed  on  the  family  record 
as  Died,  shall  know  we  live  in  memory  and  are 
thought  of  oftencr  than  every  Saturday  Night. 


.VW& 


XXIX. 

THE  POOE,   OLD   MAN. 


buried  him  this  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock. 

Just  out  of  the  city,  in  a  corner  of  the 
graveyard,  where  the  weeds,  more  tender  than 
flowers,  grow  rank  and  close  over  the  poor.  Lats 
Saturday  Night  we  saw  him  on  the  street,  slowly 

walking  to  a  cheap  home.     Seventy-eight  years 

(255} 


256  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

old,  and  no  home  of  his  own ;  not  a  child  or  a 
chick  to  give  him  welcome  night,  but  all  wait 
ing  to  bid  him  "good  morning"  over  yonder  on 
the  flower-lined  bank. 

He  never  begged.  A  sad,  strange  look  was 
always  upon  him.  Yet  he  was  not  cross  nor 
ugly.  He  was  cheerful,  and  would  sit  for  hours 
talking  to  little  children,  and  watching  them  at 
play.  At  times  a  few  tears  would  fall  from  his 
eyes,  to  be  wiped  from  his  furrowed  cheek  on 
the  back  of  his  wrinkled  hand.  He  lived  in  a 
little  house  back  on  the  prairie;  a  half -hovel 
affair ;  and  no  one  lived  \vith  him.  Sundays  the 
children  would  visit  him,  and  bring  water  from 
a  distant  well,  and  wood  by  the  armful.  He 
gave  them  nothing  but  kind  words,  but  they 
brought  him  bread,  and  meat,  and  fruit,  and 
papers  from  our  sanctum ;  and  when  he  was  too 
lame  to  go  out,  the  boys  and  girls  would  wait  on 
him.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  by  the  hour  tell- 


The  Poor  Old  Man,  257 

ing  stories  to  liis  little  friends.  He  told  the  boys 
how  to  make  arrows,  and  kites,  and  cross-guns. 

And  he  told  them  how  to  cure  their  sore  toes 
and  sore  fingers,  and  when  to  fish;  and  that  it 
was  wrong  to  be  ugly  and  cross. 

Tuesday  evening  one  of  the  boys  came  and 
wanted  us  to  go  to  Uncle  Benny's  cabin,  for  lie 
was  sick.  We  found  him  on  his  cot,  V£ry  low 
and  feeble.  A  cruel  fever  was  warring  upon 
that  old  body.  Then  we  went  for  a  physician, 
and  with  the  old  man  staid  till  morning,  when 
others  came.  His  little  friends  brought  oranges 
and  lemons,  jellies  and  wines  from  their  homes. 
And  a  clean  sheet  was  put  under  him,  another 
over  him ;  cooling  drinks  were  given  him,  anx 
ious  faces  were  all  about  him ;  but  Friday 
morning,  just  as  the  sun  rose  above  the  bluff 
east  of  the  city,  his  head  slowly  fell  back,  his 
mouth  opened,  there  was  a  rattle  in  his  throat, 
and  as  the  sunshine  struck  the  little  cabin  hia 
17 


258  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

soul  went  out,  riding  on  the  golden  beams  of  a 
new  life. 

Gently  we  gave  him  to  the  winding-sheet,  and 
more  carefully  combed  than  usual  was  the 
straggling  hair  wrhich  wanted  to  creep  down  over 
his  forehead,  to  see  if  the  eyes  were  never  more 
to  open!  And  a  few  kind  women  made  him  a 
shroud,*  slighting  never  a  part  thereof.  And  a 
few  men  bought  a  neat  coffin,  paid  the  sexton, 
and  this  afternoon,  men  and  wromcn,  and  boys 

and  girls,  slowly  walked  behind  him  to  his  rest. 

t 

We  have  attended  burials,  but  never  saw*  more 
tear-filled  eyes  than  when  the  little  ones  looked 
for  the  last  time  upon  poor  Uncle  Benny,  as  the 
coffin-lid  was  opened  just  before  he  was  lowered 
to  the  great  rest.  No  one  knew  him  other  than 
as  Uncle  Benny,  though  for  years  he  had  come 
and  gone  with  his  crutch.  His  face  was  noble 
yet  sad  in  its  death-look,  but  it  was  not  of 
suffering. 

And  we  went  with  others  back  to  the  silent 


The  Poor  Old  Man.  259 

cabin.  How  more  tlian  lonely  it  seemed !  Two 
chairs  taken  from  a  neighbor's  house  on  which 
to  rest  the  coffin.  A  quaint  old  arm-chair,  with 
a  piece  of  worn  sheepskin  for  cushion;  a  little 
old  stove,  a  few  tin  dishes ;  an  old  box  serving 
purpose  of  table  and  chest ;  a  few  old  garments 
in  pieces,  some  liniment  in  a  bottle,  and  a  few 
little  articles  worth  nothing. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  them?" 
"  Oh,  you  take  them ;  look,  them  over  and  do 
as  you  please,  said  they." 

In  one  corner  of  the  chest  was  an  old  Bible, 
badly  torn.  And  a  little  box,  very,  very  old,  as 
if  made  by  a  boy  years  ago.  It  would  hold  a 
quart,  perhaps.  It  w^as  tied  seven  times  around 
with  a  peice  of  stout  cord  like  a  chalk-line.  In 
it  were  a  pair  of  dingy  silk  gloves,  once  white, 
but  now  faded  into  a  sickly  yellow.  They  were 
much  too  small  for  his  hands.  And  a  very  old 
needle  or  pin  cushion  of  black  cloth,  the  size  of 
an  apple.  And  a  letter,  old,  dingy,  greased,  and 


260  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

creased,  folded  in  a  piece  of  soft  leather.  And  a 
plain  gold  ring,  not  mnch  broader  than  the  line 
of  life  in  our  palm. 

The  letter  was  too  old  to  read.  Its  age  no  one 
could  tell.  But  hi  it,  on  a  peice  of  thick  paper, 
in  ink,  long  since  bleached  into  faintest  lines  we 
read,  — 

"Married  —  In  Albany,  May  6, 1813,  Benjamin 
Waldower  to  Elizabeth  Yan  Doiii." 

And  this  was  all.  But  it  told  its  own  story. 
Then  we  turned  the  paper  over,  to  read  written 
on  the  back  of  it,  the  lines,  almost  indistinct, — 

"  Died — In  Kewburg,  February  17, 1814,  Eliza 
beth  Waldower  and  infant  son." 

The  story  of  a  life!  Poor  old  man!  And 
this  was  his  treasure;  that  was  the  ring.  Oh, 
how  long  the  years  must  have  seemed  while  lie 
was  waiting  to  go  to  his  loved  ones !  And  have 
they  grown  old  there  as  he  did  here  ?  Will  he 
find  them  as  they  went,  or  have  they  felt  years 
added  where  there  are  no  years? 


The  Poor  Old  Man.  261 

But  will  it  not  be  grand  when  we  can,  at 
appointed  time,  solve  the  wondrous  mystery,  and 
know  that  of  which  we  now  know  nothing  ? 
When  we  shall  have  pierced  the  veil,  and  gone 
home  to  rest  with  the  loved  ones  there  waiting  ? 

Who  would  fear  to  die  or  dread  death? 
Surely  not  those  who  have  so  long  been  true 
to  and  waited  for  the  rejoining  the  loved  ones. 
If  he  had  only  told  us  his  history! 

All  over  the  land  are  poor  old  men,  who  have 
loved  as  we  love,  who  have  been  young — have, 
with  beating  hearts,  held  heads  upon  bosoms,  and 
lingered  to  revel  in  the  perfume  of  kisses  taken 
from  lips,  perhaps,  long  since  gone,  as  we  must 
all  go!  The  old  men  were  once  young.  They 
loved,  and  longed  for  twilight  hours,  as  do  those 
who  now  watch,  and  wait  the  expected  coming ; 
and  the  years  crept  slowly  upon  them,  leaving 
line  upon  line,  care  upon  care,  joy  upon  joy,  but 
more  sorrows  upon  sorrows.  But  is  it  not  ter 
rible —  this  waiting  to  join  those  you  love? 


262  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

Waiting  the  coming  of  the  dear  ones  of  the 
heart.  Hours  —  days  —  weeks  —  months  —  years 
come  and  go  while  the  weary,  hungry  soul,  ever 
reaching  for  something  not  given  it  here  on 
earth,  doubts,  fears,  then  hopes  in  the  fullest  of 
faith  concerning  the  meeting  and  rejoicing  in  the 
eternal  land,  where  there  will  be  no  more  un 
filled  desires,  for  they  rest  forever  in  the  grave. 
Let  us  all  be  good  and  kind  to  the  poor  old 
men ;  God  only  knows  what  they  have  suffered, 
or  when  their  hopes  were  buried.  We  are  all 
growing  old,  are  all  going  home ;  and  it  may  be 
those  we  despise  on  earth  will  be  our  guides  and 
patterns  in  the  future.  Be  kind  to  the  aged.  A 
few  more  Saturday  Nights  is  all  they  will  be  with 
us,  even  if  their  presence  should  bother  and 
annoy  those  who  are  utterly  selfish.  God  only 
knows  how  much  they  sorrow  and  suffer.  Let  us 
make  them  happy.  Let  us  be  kind  to  each  other. 
Uncle  Benny  was  poor — a  poor  old  man.;  but  he 
died  rich.  "We  all  paid  tearful  tribute  to  his 


The  Poor  Old  Man.  263 

memory.  He  was  good.  He  was  kind.  He 
was  deserving.  He  was  not  a  miserly,  selfish, 
sordid  old  man,  as  are  many  who  live  and  die, 
leaving  not  one  sincere  mourner.  And  as  we 
grow  old,  may  we  all  be  like  him  in  having  a 
place  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  follow  them  in 
proper  time!  "We'd  rather  sleep  beside  him  in 
that  quiet  corner,  than  under  the  marble  monu 
ment  of  a  cold,  selfish  man;  for  he  would  be 
better  company  in  the  city  of  the  dead  and  of 
the  hereafter,  where  there  is  a  happy  reunion  for 
all  who  love  here  on  earth ;  where  the  day  is 
eternal,  and  there  is  no  weary  Saturday  Night. 


XXX. 

TUE  OLD  BUEEATJ  DRAWERS. 

AST  Saturday  Night  she  was  playing 
about  the  house,  her  merry  laugh  and 
childish  prattle  having  more  of  sunshine 
for  those  who  loved  her  than  ever  fell  at  once 
on  widest  forest  or  prairie.  We  all  loved  her. 
She  was  winning;  and  never  was  a  dearer  little 

darling.     One  night    she   romped   a    little    too 
(264) 


The  Old  Bureau  Drawers.  265 

much.  Her  nerves,  not  strong,  like  her 
mother's  or  her  father's,  were  overwrought  in 
play;  she  became  fretful,  as  we  all  do,  and 
her  papa  spoke  harshly.  Then  the  tears 
came  to  her  Heaven-lit  eyes,  and  she  ran  to 
rest  her  tired  brain  in  the  lap  of  her  mamma. 

We  heard  the  cross  words;  a  leaden  door 
seemed  to  close  on  our  heart  as  we  looked  at 
the  innocent  prattler,  then  at  the  stern  man, 
who  was  kind,  but  who  forgot  himself,  and 
forgot  that  tender  plants  crush  easily.  Over 
the  household  came  a  shadow.  The  child's 
voice  rang  out  no  more  in  merriment;  we 
all  felt  sort  of  sad,  dark,  trembly,  like  as  if 
we  wanted  to  say  something,  but  could  not. 

And  the  next  day  our  little  friend  was 
sick.  The  doctor  came.  She  had  over-played, 
taken  cold,  and  suffered.  The  next  day  she 
grew  worse.  More  than  one  prayer  went  up 
to  Him  from  her  father;  but  one  from  the 
mother,  for  her's  was  all  prayer.  The  next 


266  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

day  she  was  worse,  and  the  next  day,  resting 
her  head  on  the  bosom  of  her  mother,  she  sank 
to  sleep.  The  little  curl  before  us,  in  a  little 
box,  is  all  there  is  left  to  us,  a  friend  of  the 
family,  of  the  little  darling.  TVe  did  not 
know  how  well  we  loved  her  till  she  went 
home  to  commence  another  term! 

This  Saturday  Night  we  called  in  to  say  a 
word  to  those  who  have  loved  and  lost.  The 
merry  laugh,  the  childish  voice,  the  romping 
over  the  floor,  the.  climbing  into  our  lap,  the 
efforts  to  tease,  and  the  scamperings  here 
and  there  were  all  gone.  Great  tears  had 
spread  themselves  over  the  mother's  eyes, 
the  voice  of  the  father  was  low  and  hushed, 
for  the  dearest  darling  of  all  was  away.  God 
knows  we  pitied  them.  "We  pitied  him,  for 
he  would  have  given  his  own  life  to  have 
recalled  the  sharp  words.  But  she  had  gone 


The  Old  Bureau  Drawers.  267 

home  with,  them,  a  scar  upon  her  heart,  tender 
and  painful. 

"We  sat  and  talked,  and,  manly  or  not,  our 
tears  came  with  theirs,  to  drop  into  the  cloud 
of  sorrow  before  us.  And  while  he  sat,  with 
hands  011  table,  and  head  resting  thereon,  try 
ing  to  reach  to  her  for  the  words  he  had 
given,  and  the  life  he  had  lost,  we  went  with 
her  into  another  room.  She  carried  a  lamp. 
It  was  a  poor  man's  house,  and  not  fitted  with 
gas  and  conveniences,  as  are  the  houses  of  the 
rich.  Steadily  the  door  was  opened.  The 
two  windows  were  darkened  by  curtains.  In 
a  corner  of  the  room  stood  an  old  bureau. 
She  pulled  out  a  drawer,  next  but  one  to  the 
top,  and  there  were  piled  and  packed  all  the 
little  clothes  of  the  one  we  mourned. 

The  little  dresses  were  there.  The  little 
shoes  and  stockings  were  in  one  corner,  while 

O  / 

in  another  were  the  little  toys,  once  the  delight 
of  our  little  pet.  There  were  little  ribbons, 


268  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

such  teeny  little  ones.  And  little  cups 
and  saucers,  as  she  had  played  with  them. 
But  she  was  not  there.  The  little  cloth'es  she 
wore  a  week  since  were  all  there,  folded  nicely, 
as  were  the  beautiful  little  hands  we  saw  in 
the  coffin,  folded  over  her  breast,  as  if  she  was 
saying,— 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

And  the  little  apron  she  had  torn  by  catch 
ing  it  as  she  ran  past  a  wood  box,  and  for 
which  came  the  cutting  words.  This  too  lay 
there,  folded  with  the  rest,  just  as  she  had 
worn  it  and  torn  it.  In  a  little  box  were  one, 
two,  three,  four  little  curls,  golden  and  beauti 
ful,  and  one  of  them  for  us.  You  who  are 
rich  do  not  always  know  which  are  the 
rarest  treasures! 

The  tears  of  the  mother  dropped  fast  into 
the  second  grave  of  her  lost  one.  Never  a  word 
did  either  speak;  her  heart  was,  oh!  so  far 


The  Old  Bureau  Drawers.  269 

away.  "  And  as  the  drawer  was  closed,  and 
silently  we  returned  to  another  room  with 
our  treasure,  we  could  not  help  thinking  of 
others  who  mourn  for  little  ones,  of  the  thou 
sands  of  drawers  or  little  boxes  all  over  the 
land  wherein  are  kept  most  sacredly  the  tear- 
wet  mementoes  of  the  loved  ones  who  have 
gone  before.  Dearer  than  life  are  these  treas 
ures.  Here  mothers  can  weep  and  pray; 
here  the  heart  can  overflow  its  bitterness,  and 
take  another  look,  and  leap  toward  the  beau 
tiful  future,  where  are  waiting  those  we  loved, 
but  who  have  gone. 

And  as  you  would  meet  there  the  dear  ones 
of  the  heart,  speak  kindly.  Another  Saturday 
Night,  and  you  may  be  childless.  Another 
Saturday  Night,  and  your  tears  may  drop 
in  upon  the  Httle  folded  clothes  and  playthings. 
And  it  must  be  hard  to  know  that  our  lost 
ones  carried  with  them  hearts  covered  with 
the  bruises  our  lips  or  acts  have  made.  God, 


270  Our  Saturday  Nights. 

who  is  good,  grant  that  none  who  read  this 
may  have  these  lasting  graves  with  them  now, 
or  with  them  when  shall  come  another  Saturday 
Right,  for  we  would  have  no  heart  filled  with 
sadness.  And  not  for  the  result  of  a  life  of 
toil  would  we  have  our  little  darling  die ;  per 
haps  her  last  thought  be  of  words  to  her 
spoken  which  cut  and  wounded.  You  see  we 
cannot  call  back  the  words,  nor  our  lost  ones, 
to  ask  them  to  forgive  us. 

All  the  evening  we  have  sat  and  thought 
of  the  bureau  drawers  which  hold  more  than 
the  clothes  of  the  little  darling  who  died, — 

O  J 

they  hold  the  hearts  of  the  living.  They  are 
rounds  in  the  ladder  which  reaches  'way  up 
there  beyond  the  blue  and  into  the  golden ; 
beyond  the  clouds  into  the  smiles.  In  palaces 
and  fine  mansions,  wrhere  hired  nurses  care  for 
little  ones,  these  drawers  are  not  so  richly 
freighted ;  but  in  the  homes  of  the  poor,  yes, 


The  Old  Bureau  Drawers.  271 

and  in  some  of   the  homes   of  the   rich,  they 
hold  more  than  tongue  can  tell. 

Then  let  us  love  our  little  ones  more.  Let 
us  always  speak  kindly  to  them.  Then  they 
will  love  us  and  try  to  do  right.  And  if  we 
go  home  to  rest  in  the  beautiful  land  before 
they  go,  they  will  love  our  memories  and  so 
live  as  to  meet  us.  As  yet  we  have  no 
bureau  drawer  over  which  to  weep.  God 
grant  we  never  may  have.  But  we  often 
think  of  those  who  have,  and  wonder  if  those 
who  mourn  were  kind  to  the  little  ones  whose 
mounds  are  in  the  churchyards,  but  whose  play 
things  are  folded  and  put  away,  as  is  our  work 
for  this  Saturday  Night. 


SATURDAY MGHT  IMPROMPTU  TO  MY  DARLING. 


ABLING !  before  to-night  I  close  my  eyes 
In  sleep,  an  earnest  kiss  to  thee  I  send 
By  the  loved  spirits.     A  sweet  surprise 
And  welcome  as  the  glances  from  thine  eyes 

"When  on  thy  lips  mine  did  oft  attend  — 
A  pure,  lingering  kiss  of  love, 

Darling,  good-night! 

Saturday  Night !  would  that  I  were  by  thy  side, 
Palm  on  palm  resting  as  in  hours  of  yore  ; 

When  to  my  kisses  you  with  like  replied, 

And  our  hearts  in  love  grew  strong  allied, 
Waiting  love's  rest  on  the  eternal  shore. 

Interest  on  those  kisses  now  I  send, 

Darling,  good-night ! 

Heart  loved,  I  pray  "  Our  Father"  each  night  to  bless 
The  one  to  whom  I  send  this  kiss  of  love ; 

And  then  I  linger  on  the  last  caress 

You  gave  me,  and,  Darling,  I  must  confess 
I  think  more  of  it  than  of  Him  Above  ! 

Then  take  this  kiss  for  thee  alone  — 

Darling,  good-night! 


THE  END. 
(272) 


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